BloodRed Rose for Legolas
by ElvenDestiny
Summary: Sariel is a ruthless assassin sent to kill the prince of Mirkwood in exchange for her family's freedom, yet the shadow of her past blocks her way as she struggles to determine truth from lies and to learn to accept what is truly in her heart.
1. Bound By BloodOath

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

Disclaimer: Written with all respect of J.R.R. Tolkien, creator of such a wonderful world. Lord of the Rings doesn't belong to me and no copyright infringement is intended.

**Please Note:** This story has been under extensive revision but is very close to its finalized form. The first few chapters may seem relatively juvenile, but the story becomes serious fairly soon and is intended for mature readers. It does deal with some heavy topics, hence the M rating. If you're hoping for unicorns and rainbows, you won't find them here.

At the risk of scaring off readers, I should say that the first third of this novel-length story was actually first written when I was thirteen. Quite predictably, some of it was simply terrible. Those chapters have been revised many times since then, but don't be surprised if you notice a change in the level and quality of the writing once you're further along. Bottom line is, if you give this a chance, hopefully it won't disappoint. You can always check my profile for updates on the status of the revisions.

Pronunciation Guide:

Sariel – Sare-RE-elle. Take the name 'Ariel' and add a soft 's' in front. Sare rhymes with 'I dare you to,' RE as in return, and -elle as in Michelle.

Belderon – Bell-DUR-ron

Lorianiel – Lori-AN-iel

Lessena – Less-EN-na. EN as in brighten.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Bound by Blood-Oath**

* * *

The knife sliced into her hand swiftly and cleanly, delaying the pain for a few scant moments before the cut began to sting. Sariel bit her lip and tried to keep her face expressionless as Belderon repeated the action on himself, cutting shallowly across his palm. Before the blood welling from their wounds had time to spill, Belderon pressed their hands together and let the mixture drip into two tiny glass vials.

"_By blood, Sariel Nightstar, I bind thee_

_By blood-oath you are bound to me._

_As you are reborn in death's shadow_

_Elven blood will become its own greatest foe._

_.  
_

_For vengeance, death shall be his fate_

_The son of Thranduil solely mine to assassinate._

_His life now yours, as you desire to be free_

_In this exchange which binds for all eternity."_

Despite her determination to hide her fear, Sariel shivered slightly. It was only the third time she had made a blood-oath such as this, but the last two times had been the worst in her life. This time, she was sure, would be different—but no better. This time it was the princeling of Mirkwood that Belderon wanted, and the stakes were so much higher. Her mother and sister would finally be free of Belderon, and so would she, if only she completed the task well.

Hardly sparing a glance at her, Belderon put one of the vials on a thin silver chain and gave it to her. The other one he kept and put it in his locked box, which would disappear somewhere in his rooms, not that Sariel had ever dared to enter them. With steady fingers despite her unease, Sariel fastened the necklace around her neck and tried not to flinch as the small object, shaped like an hourglass, touched her skin. It was still warm from the blood. Her hand continued to sting despite the bandaging she wrapped around it, reminding her that the blood-oath was a dark ritual and a powerful binding. After all, so were most things that involved blood.

"Please, may I see my sister and mother before I leave?" she asked quietly. Long experience had taught Sariel that Belderon was thoroughly heartless, but not necessarily unreasonable. Indeed, it was his logical ruthlessness that was far more terrifying than anything else. She thought he would not deny her this, not when the visit would reaffirm her choice, as it always did. Nothing else could have strengthened her resolve to set the life of her family above all else, whether it was right or wrong to do so.

"Yes," Belderon granted after a thoughtful silence that had tension tightening Sariel's shoulders. "I will be listening. You may not tell them of this affair, or of what else you have done under my command. The emotion born of your blood ties weakens you, my dear. Remember what I have taught you."

Sariel allowed herself a few moments of relief, but she had not yet been dismissed, and she knew better than to leave before he was completely done with her. He stared into the flames of the fire impassively.

"I will see you in the morning before you leave," Belderon finally said after he had made her wait several more minutes in oppressive stillness.

Sariel nodded once and left, closing the door behind her with the half-hearted wish that she could lock her Master out of her life forever. It was fancy, more than emotion, that was her weakness. Her imagination and ceaseless wishing had brought her closer to danger than any affection she might have had for anyone. Even her family were strangers, her loyalty to them the result more of what she wished they were to her, than what they actually were.

She walked down the grey stone hall, fighting the compulsion to run…because there was nowhere, really, she could run to. She only hated to be in his presence. She knew that Belderon could hear her footsteps; like all Elves, his hearing and eyesight were incredibly acute. _I should know, _she thought, bitterness lacing the knowledge. _After all, I have the same gifts. _

At last she reached yet another door and opened it, looking into a painfully austere room with cold stone walls. It was as grey as the rest of the place and all that color was unrelieved by light. Inside of the room, her mother sat placidly in a chair, giving the impression that she was always stationary, like some invalid confined to endless rest. Her sister was huddled on the bed, barely looking up at Sariel when she entered. Sariel averted her eyes anyway, not wanting to face the utter lifelessness sure to be in Lessena's otherwise pretty countenance. Her mother ignored Sariel completely.

Both had heavy iron shackles around their wrists and their ankles, as expected of prisoners. Sariel knew it was all for show. Belderon had fine wires just as capable of binding, but the room was jail enough even if his power over all of them, should there be any sign of disobedience, was somehow not. In comparison to them, Sariel seemed to exude a hard vitality, making it seem as if she were of a completely different race. It was not that there was anything too outwardly wrong at first sight about the appearance of the two Elves in the room, except perhaps the fact that their skin appeared to be fine parchment stretched over brittle bones. Still, few methods of torture could have been as effective as Belderon's for shattering the mind.

"Mother, Lessena, I will leave tomorrow. I can only tell you that if all goes well, we may be freed. I do not know when, but it will be at least several months before my task is completed." She had always made her sentences the bare minimum when speaking because otherwise her mother did not listen. Too many horrors had been whispered to her, too many truths distorted, and she blocked out almost everything around her, including her daughter.

Sariel embraced her mother gently, unsure as to what she thought might break if more force were exerted. The once beautiful Lorianiel was gaunt and haggard, her appearance as grey as the unforgiving walls around them. Golden hair had faded to wispy yellow-white and her blue eyes were clouded as if with a human's advanced age. The milky film over sapphire eyes like her own made it hard for Sariel to look at her without slight disgust, followed by shame.

Her mother said nothing, but after a while the waxen figure that was Lessena melted to life. It seemed to take great effort and the words were slow, each one painstakingly carved out of the still air.

"Sariel, do not give us hope. Let us die so that you, at least, shall be free," she said. "He allows you come ever so often because he knows the exact limits to which a soul may be punished, but still survive enough to continue in a physical shell. What does he want from us? Why does he keep you away?" Tears began to thicken Lessena's light voice, the words coming now as if long suppressed.

"Lessena—" Sariel began, but her sister stopped her with a look.

"You change every time I see you, Sariel. You seem as cold and distant as the woods of Lothlórien where we once lived. You stink of blood, and yet none I can see. You are bright with life, but no longer passionate. Something dark has twisted your soul, I feel it! You were ours once; what has he done to you to make you like this?"

Sariel could not seem to find the voice to reply, even if she had had the words. Her eyes blurred with tears but she struggled to hold them back, frustrated with her helplessness. She was letting her emotions control her, seeing the Lessena she wanted to see. The torrent of words came not from concern, but accusation. Finally, Sariel swallowed hard and answered.

"Have hope because there is hope now. How can you relinquish everything after so many years, when we are so close to freedom? You speak of Lothlórien…our true home. Think of the mallorn-trees in Lórien—remember autumn when their leaves turned russet, and rustled gently as the wind stirred them. Do you remember? If I do this—if I do as Belderon commands me to do, we can go back there. He will free us!" Sariel's bandaged hand flew up to her neck to grip the small, hard shape of the warm vial. The revulsion she felt at keeping even a few drops of Belderon's blood close to her was overpowered by what it had bought: a contract of death in exchange for freedom—hers, and her family's.

Lorianiel stirred to life, baring her teeth at Sariel like a feral animal. "What do you know of lifetimes spent in this cage? How can you know what it is like? You, at least, are freer than either of us! Go, Sariel, and leave us be. Do not give me your words of freedom or your memories of the past, seeking to comfort us with illusions. Has Belderon not taught you that it is the dreamers who meet the cruelest reality in the end? Go!"

The words fell harshly into the gentle spell Sariel had sought to weave with her words and hurt her as if they were knives. Sariel sucked in a breath that was almost a gasp, closing her eyes briefly. Lorianiel's voice had lifted in melodic song, once. But as she said, that was many lifetimes ago.

Sariel blinked away hot tears when she finally looked at two sets of indifferent eyes, knowing that she had given everything to save them, only to be constantly faced with her powerlessness and failure. She called them her mother and sister, but were they, in any way other than blood? Their stinging rejection of her now seemed like a betrayal, but the knowledge that it was also her fault, the thought that she had ignored reality for too long and had built up a fantasy in which the remnants of her family loved her—all of it was too much for her to accept. Belderon's repeated lessons echoed in her mind and she clung to it.

Despite everything, Belderon was an elder Elf who knew much. However much he was a monster, he was still right. Emotion had made her weak, but knowing her own flaws did not change anything. She turned blindly and stumbled out of the room without another word, sick with misery.

Lorianiel's words were true, and Sariel could only numbly wonder how much worse it was for her mother and sister to see her. Each day, she longed to see them, and yet every visit was the same reoccurring nightmare. Belderon let her roam in the woods as she pleased, knowing that she could not leave him while her family remained. She watched her family die a little more each day, until the days stretched into endless seasons and years, and they watched her enjoy all the things that they had been deprived of—there was no irony more merciless. Over the unending course of an Elf's life, how could that hate not build, until all the bonds of family had worn away?

There was the certain knowledge that they were all she had left, and this kept Sariel in her own invisible chains. She would not let them die, not even if it meant fate had to be appeased with another innocent's death. Nothing was worth more to her. She could kill five strangers, five hundred strangers, if that was the price. This time, freedom was so achingly close—all she had to do was kill Belderon's hated princeling of Mirkwood.

It was unclear why Belderon had offered her freedom at long last, after all her killings. Perhaps he had grown bored of his game and had decided to end it with one last task. Perhaps this was the culmination of his grand plan, one that Sariel had never fathomed, since he sent her to finish seemingly random targets. It did not matter; for Sariel, the end was near, as near as the rib bones were to the heart.

Yet Lorianiel and Lessena refused to hope for anything, and deep down inside Sariel screamed and raged against their unwillingness, because she could not remember the last time they had seemed alive.

Back in her own rooms, Sariel lay awake, calming herself by reciting the simple points that Belderon had taught her, to focus her mind before an assassination. Gradually, the anger and grief subsided until only a mild irritation was left over the damning evidence of her feelings: the salty dampness of her pillow. Her heart hardened as she thought about what the start of her journey tomorrow would mean. She would be back in Lothlórien, back where her home used to be. Despite herself, a few tears still silently slipped out of her eyes as she remembered the charred ruins of the beautiful tree where her family had lived in almost idyllic joy. They had only been one family amidst many others, until evil came and changed everything.

As usual, her last thoughts before sleep claimed her were of her father, fallen by Belderon's hand. He emerged from her memories, pristine and unchanged, unlike the living remnants of her family that she had seen earlier that day. Even his ghostly embrace seemed solid and reassuring, though she knew it was all a trick of her mind. "I will avenge you," she promised in a whisper, the sound quickly lost in the dark. It had been an empty promise for too long. She could not even free herself, or her mother and her sister.

The ghost of her father still waited, calm and wise. He reached for her, as loving as always, without shadows in his eyes like those in Lessena's, when she sensed the death that shadowed Sariel's soul. Sariel closed her eyes, pressing her face to his chest, listening to the steady heartbeat. "After we are freed, I will come back and Belderon shall live no more." She had repeated these words so many times that she fancifully thought that perhaps the room would have a memory of it, even when she was gone, and passersby would hear her whisper when even the Elves had returned to ashes and dust.

There was a chance now to make them true.

* * *

Sariel woke up early next morning before the dismal skies had brightened with sunlight. She scrambled into a plain, dark green shirt and soft brown leggings before the light fog of dreams even cleared from her mind. Letting loose a sigh, she started to pack, economical movements ensuring that she finish with plenty of time before the sun rose. Everything had to be organized so she could find it easily. She took time to meticulously clean all her weapons and to store in her saddlebags the sweet, light brown journeycakes wrapped in leaves that she often made in preparation for Belderon's assignations. As sustenance went, Belderon left herself to her own devices, and she had fumblingly attempted to recall what she could remember from her childhood, with varying success. This time, they were too dry and would not be sweet at all, as she had misjudged the amount of honey necessary. Still, even her failed experiments provided nourishment, and that was enough.

Along with various other items, she remembered to pack two heel-length cloaks, one deep blue and one black. She wore the third, a forest green cloak with an intricately designed clasp of silver. She had stolen it a long time ago, when her Master had sent her own on her first tasks—spying, rather than assassination.

Belderon was waiting for her in his rooms, but at her arrival he rose and left, expecting her to follow him outside. To her surprise, he told her to bring all her weapons, most of which she already carried on her.

"A little test, my pet." He smiled at her beguilingly. "Now, you did not expect me to let you go so easily, did you?"

Sariel had indeed thought so. After all, she had completed assassinations many times before and was quite experienced. Neither had she been slack in her training, as Belderon well knew, since he often observed her at it.

"No, Master," she still said deferentially, because he was waiting for an answer. Despite it all, she needed to please him.

"Show me what you have learned. Take your bow and be prepared to aim for that piece of cloth fluttering in the wind on that tree."

Sariel looked where he was pointing. She was surprised at the target he had chosen. Even she, with her already keen eyesight sharpened by practice, could barely see the tiny piece of red cloth, and it furled and unfurled with the gusts of the wind. Belderon's sudden, uncharacteristic penchant for testing her gave her an odd feeling. She had already known that this was a special case, considering the fact that he had offered her freedom, as if he would no longer have use of her afterward. So who exactly was the princeling of Mirkwood? Why was he so important that Belderon, who had never doubted her abilities—because, after all, _he _had personally trained her and she had never failed—would want to test her?

Sariel put aside all speculation when Belderon handed her three arrows. They were not the perfectly fletched ones that she had made, but slightly battered, though useable, old arrows. She would have to compensate for their flaws and for the wind. Sariel needed all her focus here, not in idle thoughts.

"Three arrows, consecutively. Start when I clap my hands," Belderon said simply, and walked away from her.

She listened for his signal, knowing that it in itself was part of the test. When the soft sound came, she reached behind her to take an arrow, almost instinctively adjusting as a cloud passed over the sun, barely pausing to note that Belderon had deliberately waited to test her with this, too. The movements of aiming and firing the first arrow were as natural to her as breathing, smooth although not quite effortless. She did so twice more, her speed and attention to detail essential for accuracy. The wind presented no great challenge, although the third arrow had a weakness in the wood that threatened to send its flight awry, so Sariel judged the distance and aimed not at flag, but a little to the left.

When she finished, she looked at Belderon. He motioned her to come, and they walked together to the target. The small piece of cloth was pinned to the trunk by the three arrows, the third somewhat farther from the other two. Sariel pulled them out carefully, hoping that they could be reused. The first two seemed undamaged so she put them back into her quiver, making a mental note to check more thoroughly later. Even a hairline crack in the shaft or slightly damaged feathering would compromise the effectiveness of the arrow. The third she would discard.

Belderon had no comments for her, instead returning to their original place, leaving the piece of cloth on the tree, now with three holes. He moved closer to the target, counting his paces and looking up until the distance was exactly as he wanted. "The dagger," he said. There was something in his voice that implied that Sariel had better be perfect this time, and she wondered what she had done to displease him. The third arrow still would have been lethal. The red flag had only been a hand's width.

Her concentration shifted to that small, fluttering piece of cloth far ahead of her and she threw. The dagger hit right on the mark, buried almost halfway into the trunk. She pulled it out with difficulty, grateful that the blade remained always sharp, and inwardly wondered what other tests Belderon would require her to perform. She rarely used the dagger, preferring her lighter Elvish knives instead, or of course the stiletto. Still, her skill with knives exceeded her other abilities. Not only had she had a natural affinity to the smaller, lighter weapons, but Belderon had also spent twice as much time drilling her in that aspect. Of course, she had not done sword work yet, but this was a rarely called upon area of her many talents.

Sariel could not help but wonder whether this was truly to test her, or only some strange way Belderon had devised to reassure himself that she would be effective. Not that she had ever _failed_; he had always demanded the absolute best from her. Why would this have changed, simply because her target was different?

Belderon made her cut yet another piece of cloth into eight equal pieces before it dropped to the ground with her two knives, testing not only her skill, but her dedication to caring for her weapons and ensuring that they were frequently whetted to perfection. He then engaged in swordplay with her. Sariel performed well, but diffidently, until Belderon's glare injected her with a healthy dose of fear. Try as she might, she had never reached the point where she could defeat Belderon with a sword. He was a consummate swordsman and he gave the art a new cruelty that was almost savage.

_The stiletto remains_, Sariel thought. Of all the weapons, it was most suited for an assassin. Sword for heavy combat, bow and arrows for distance-work, knives strapped to her forearms for close work and defense, and the dagger as a general all-around weapon. The stiletto was small, deadly, but the keen blade was hardly an inch wide and perhaps seven inches long. It was useful for finding its way to a heart and wonderfully subtle, but hardly good for anything other than assassin's work. Despite the special properties of the silver-white Elvish metal, the thin blade could still snap, given the right pressure.

With a start, she realized that Belderon was looking at her again, waiting with a serpentine patience. He instructed her to approach him while he was unaware—he wanted her to touch the tip of the stiletto to his neck, just enough to make one drop of blood.

This was a true challenge. Of the assortment of different knives and daggers she carried, the stiletto was not her favorite, but it was the truest to her profession. She had been told to use it to kill the two Elves that she had been bound by blood-oath to kill, before. The rest of the assassinations were open to her choice and she used a variety of methods, from poison to even the exotic garrote. There were an infinite number of ways to kill and she had simply picked the ones she thought were most efficient. Sometimes Belderon wanted to show his revenge, but more often than not he wanted her to leave no trace of her passage, so her victim needed to mysteriously disappear.

She was as adept at using the stiletto as she was with the other weapons, but to silently approach an Elf with the same abilities as herself and cause just _one_ drop of blood on his neck was a rather terrifying prospect. Belderon would be on guard for her attack, whereas most of her victims were taken by stealth.

This was the time to prove to herself that she could surpass her master, and Sariel felt darkly determined. She had clung to her vow to avenge her father as if it were her lifeline. This test meant more to her than Belderon would ever suspect.

She disappeared into the woods, keeping a steady eye on Belderon, who was sitting with his back to a tree, bright eyes looking for any sign of her. An instant attack could surprise him, as he probably thought she would wait and assess the situation, but Sariel didn't want to chance it. It would be difficult to sustain a high level of constant awareness, so she waited.

Finally she slipped behind him, close to his right side, praying that the leaves under her feet would not crackle as she stepped on them. No amount of skill could bypass the advantages that nature had given Belderon. Luck, however, was on her side. The forest loam swallowed the sound of her actions, even as Sariel chided herself for the tension in her hands. What skilled assassin succumbed to nerves in the middle of an assignation? She took a few breaths, deliberately relaxing her muscles so that her movements would be loose, and then stepped carefully close to the tree that Belderon was leaning against.

She studied the scene intently as she became closer, seeing the small gaps where she could evade Belderon's gaze at least temporarily. In a few quick steps, she had reached him, stiletto in hand. Belderon shifted and she froze, but the rustling of the wind covered her and she knew with a peculiar certainty that he would not turn to see her. Her hand darted forward and descended, the point of the stiletto just barely touching his neck. It cut so gently; she had the utmost control over the blade. She darted away before he could capture her and reappeared in front of him as Belderon put his hand to his neck.

There was a single red drop welling from the tiny wound, not a pinprick, which would have hurt immediately and alerted him to her attack, but a precise surface cut.

"Well done," said Belderon as he smeared away the blood with his fingers. "Go, then, and kill the prince of Mirkwood."

Fear mingled with a quick flash of irritation. Sariel hated his condescension. She was not the forgetful, brainless child he had kidnapped so many years ago, but he thought her a total puppet still. That it was blatantly true did not make it any easier to accept.

"I will contact you at night every other day. Do not even think of escaping, my pet. A single misstep and your mother and sister will suffer for it. Fail, and they will pay the price."

There was only one ultimate price Belderon ever demanded of anyone-death.

Sariel was hesitant to speak up but she had too many misgivings about this assignation. Why had he not given her more information? Instead, he had focused only on her target's title, as if that mattered the most. He was never so vague about her tasks.

"Master…his name?" she prompted.

"All you need to know is that he is the prince of Mirkwood." The finality in his voice was clear.

Sariel asked nothing more though she had to bite back the questions. Giving her some background would only aid her, and Belderon had made it clear that this was not an ordinary case. Facilitating the assassination should logically be a priority. An undefined target meant that she would have to stay for a while and to get to know his habits. At least, as a prince, her target would be fairly well known. For a moment, the thought of multiple princes disconcerted her, but Belderon would never make that mistake. Princeling or prince, there had to be only one son of Mirkwood, if that was his title.

In the next instant, Sariel's mouth was suddenly dry underneath her Master's colorless gaze, and she felt almost sick with fear. So many years, and it was always like that when he scrutinized her in that way, as if to him it was perfectly clear exactly when she would die, and as if he were contemplating whether it would happen under his blade.

"Go to the stables and take Myste. She will serve you well enough." The last was meant as a slight, and she again wondered what she had done to incur his displeasure. He turned abruptly and walked away.

Sariel stared at his diminishing figure for a moment, her knees suddenly feeling like they were too weak to support her. He was angry, she was sure, yet he almost never showed emotion. It was part of what he had taught her, but the heat in his eyes showed that he was not as dispassionate as usual. So why was this assassination so different? Why was this the last?

She tried not to think too much while she entered the stables. Belderon would be furious if he knew how much she indulged her fondness for horses, but even so, she took a lump of sugar to Myste's stall. The smoky white filly nickered a greeting and she almost smiled.

Myste had been her only companion since the day the filly had been born. Her mother had died during the birthing and Sariel had cared for Myste since then, developing a strong bond with the gangly foal. Other animals avoided Belderon's citadel and the other horses were not true horses, but rather Belderon's steeds, bred for their temper and savage nature. Whatever he had done to them, they only resembled horses, but even their appearance gave them away as something other.

Housed next to those hellish beasts, Myste had developed a tolerance for fright, endearing herself to Sariel, who needed a mount that would not easily spook. The filly was also obedient and sweet natured, and though Sariel had no comparison except for her hazy childhood memories, Myste seemed to be much faster than others of her kind.

It took just a while for Sariel to ready the saddlebags. Aside from food and clothing, she needed little. She had only a few personal possessions and she did not have the courage to ask Belderon to see her mother and sister again. Part of her knew that it was because she dreaded facing her family, but another part simply did not care. She wanted to be free—free from Belderon, free from all the ties that bound her soul, even those blood ties that justified her killing. Yet Lessena and Lorianiel were the only reasons she had to live, the only things that mattered to her in her existence, even if they were not the mother and sister of her imagination. There was nothing else left.

It was a bittersweet feeling that washed over her as she mounted Myste and rode away, refusing to look backward. She was free of Belderon's hated prison for at least a few months, but she would always have to return. The freedom was but mere illusion when she had to leave what mattered the most to her behind—two Elves that continued living because of her actions, no matter how lifeless they seemed. She had made such journeys before, but this time there was the forbidden hope that this would be her last.

With Myste, she journeyed away from Lake Evendim, and toward the life that awaited her—toward the Golden Wood, Lothlórien.

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A/N: Please take a second to **review**! First chapters matter a lot, so although there are many more for you to read, I would love to get your first impressions.

_Finalized June 2008_


	2. Journey to Lothlórien

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

Disclaimer: Written with all respect of J.R.R. Tolkien, creator of such a wonderful world, home of so many stories and such an inspiration to all fantasy writers. No copyright infringement intended.

Notes: I forgot to clarify that the rating of R for this story only applies to Chapter 14 and on. This story takes place at the LOTR trilogy, but it is semi-AU because of some changes. Aragorn hasn't yet been crowned king and he hasn't married Arwen. The description of Sariel's journey and the places she passed by is all taken either from the maps of Middle-Earth or from LOTR descriptions. Lake Evendim has _nothing_ to do with Mercedes Lackey.

Special note to Tolkien canonites, purists, etc.: I have chosen not to completely follow canon not because I don't know it, but because this is my story and not an attempt to imitate Tolkien. I am fully aware of the places where changes have been made and mean no disrespect to Tolkien for any of it. If this bothers you, please stop reading right now.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Journey to Lothlórien**

* * *

Myste had always been a wonderful steed to journey with, but Sariel never appreciated her as much as when she carried her away from Belderon rather than toward. The filly was fast, light, with a gentle gait that eased Sariel back into the habit of travel so that she wasn't overly tired. Within fifteen days, Nenuial, the Elvish name for Lake Evendim, was far away and Sariel had reached the Mitheithel. She followed the riverbanks of the Mitheithel until the Nin-in-Eilph, the river delta of the Glanduion. Sariel then rode alongside the Glanduin to the mountains, south of the Moria Gate.

Although it was not yet sundown when she reached the mountains, she stopped to set up camp, reasoning that there was no need for excessive hurry. It was the twentieth day after she had left Nenuial and she was tired and dirty, but eager to reach her destination. Thinking about her return to Lórien made her a little heartsick and troubled her dreams, but a sense of excitement had filled her ever since she had known that she would have to return to her old home in order to meet her target.

The waters of the Glanduin were cool, but not overly so, and she was glad for the river's bounty. After bathing, she set up camp, resigned to waiting for Belderon to contact her. When he did, she reported that she was about fourteen days from Lórien, as he had expected. Thankfully, the exchange was brief. Whatever it was that Belderon used to allow him to communicate with her over such long distances unnerved Sariel completely, and it always took hours before her unease faded after such communication.

Just as she was boiling water to cook her dinner, her keen Elven ears heard the sounds of the forest cease. Alert to the wildlife's wariness, Sariel quickly doused her fire, hearing the sound of heavy, rhythmic footsteps. There was no time to diminish the races of her camp so she fervently hoped that whoever or whatever was coming would be friendly. Weapons at the ready, Sariel scrambled up a tree and waited until she saw exactly what was making the noise.

"_Yrch,_" she murmured below her breath, natural disgust greater than any particular worry from danger. She had a great familiarity with them, for had fought many of the Uruk-hai, the creatures that were a combination of orc and goblin breeding, who could move about in broad daylight, as part of her training in Nenuial. The orcs were not even that.

She counted six, and briefly debated whether she should make herself scarce or to attempt a lone ambush. Sariel knew that she could dispose of them easily despite the odds, since surprise was on her side. Some could be disposed of with arrows before the other three would retaliate with their crude bows. Although it would have been easier for her to remain hidden, she was concerned for Myste.

The orcs paused by her campsite and Sariel knew it was no use. She loosed three arrows in quick succession, each hitting its target cleanly in the throat or in the heart. The remaining orcs would soon follow the flight of the arrows back to her hidden location in the tree, so Sariel slid back to the ground, landing in a crouch with her bow still in one hand just as one orc came near. She grabbed the water she had been boiling and threw it in his slimy, grey-brown face for distraction. Apparently the water had still been hot, since it made a horribly inhuman scream and stumbled back.

An arrow at such close range finished him off, but the window of opportunity for archery had closed. The other two orcs were too close, so Sariel drew her sword. Aurielen shone bright silver against the dull metal armor of the orcs. Dancing out of the way of its heavy broadsword, Sariel saw the other orc closing in—she had to finish this fast. There were plenty of openings in the orc's guard and Sariel distracted it for a few seconds more before the orc raised its arm to bring down its sword on her. Before he had a chance, she drove her sword deeply into the exposure in his armor with all her strength, piercing him through.

She let go with a slight curse and immediately drew her twin silver-white knives as she did so, knowing that she would not be able to pull the sword back out in time. The last orc was the most cautious, remaining out of reach. Sariel guessed that he was the leader of the little group and had the advantage with the longer reach his sword provided. She would have already taken care of the orc if only she had not left her sword in the body of the slain orc. Belderon's voice pounded in her head as she and the leader circled each other.

_Never run something through with a sword, especially not on horseback, unless you can spare the use of the sword. In battle with none to help you, you will not have the time or strength to pull the sword out again before being injured or slain. Play to your advantages, Sariel. You have speed, not brute strength. A sword is too easily caught between the bones of the ribs. _

However much she hated Belderon, Sariel knew he had mentored her well in fighting, at least. She closed in on the orc and feinted, the knife in her right hand darting towards the orc's shoulder. When he dodged the blade by turning to the left, her second knife was ready for him, angled to slip past his armor, and he moved into the blade, impaling himself by virtue of his own weight. He sagged and Sariel felt the immediate strain in her left arm as she tried to hold up his weight. Her right hand slashed up at the orc's throat in a lightning-quick motion, cutting his jugular vein and killing the orc almost instantaneously. At last, she shoved him backwards and he crumpled to the ground.

Sariel looked the littered bodies and the blackish blood covering her and rapidly soaking through her clothes and sighed. Now she would have to start the whole process over again and her last campsite had been close to ideal. Some things were priorities, however. She stood over the body of the slain orc and pulled out Aurielen with some difficulty, reaffirming her earlier decision to temporarily abandon the sword. Along with her knives, she cleaned the blades on the dew-sprinkled grass underfoot.

First, to move on, before any other orcs came looking for their fallen comrades. Orcs had little loyalty to each other, but there was no use inviting trouble. Sariel packed up her supplies on Myste and rode for a while alongside the river, finally picking a secure spot. After dismounting and freeing Myste to graze, she headed towards the river bank, deftly unbraiding her long black hair as she walked. Just as she finished bathing for the second time, she stopped drying herself and listened intently. Something else was heading this way; the birds had stopped chirping again and it was dead silent in the forest except for the sound of faint hoof beats on crackling leaves.

_Not again_, she thought, annoyed. Why were so many things following her today, after half a month of seeing nothing but wildlife? She dressed rapidly, pulling back her loose hair in a practical tie, and was about to mount Myste when four riders burst into her new, would-be campsite. Sariel immediately drew her bow, though she could tell already that they were not orcs. She scanned the riders and relaxed fractionally, but kept her aim on who she thought was the leader. To her surprise, an Elf behind the human dismounted and stepped forward instead.

"My companions and I mean no harm to you," he said in Elvish. When she did not reply or give any sort of acknowledgement of his words, he repeated himself in translation.

Sariel narrowed her eyes at him, sustaining the tension in her bow. As if she, clearly Elven, would be ignorant of the languages of her own kind. Not that the stranger was rude, but it was simply such an illogical thing on his part that it aggravated her. She felt little kinship to those of her own race and words could easily be deceptive. The Elf, however, seemed surprised by her hostility and Sariel belatedly realized that she could not afford to make herself memorable by being unusual.

"You need not bother," she said brusquely, still wary. "I understand the Common Speech. Name yourselves, or I will fire."

Surprise again flickered across the Elf's face. Sariel noticed it, but her attention shifted to the leader again when the Man urged his horse closer to her, despite her arrow aimed at the Elf. "I am Aragorn, and my comrades here are Legolas, Boromir, and Gimli." His voice was steady and confident. "We have done nothing to threaten you, and if you wish to engage in combat, you will surely be defeated. I suggest that you put down your bow and explain who _you_ are."

Sariel reluctantly loosed her grip on the bow, deciding that there was really no point in antagonizing these people further. Her pragmatic sensibilities forced her to admit that the Man was correct; she was outnumbered, and words would serve her better here. "I am Lady Sariel of the Elves of Nenuial and I am journeying to Lothlórien."

In actuality, she was no lady, considering that the 'Elves of Nenuial' consisted of herself, Belderon, and her captive mother and sister. Sariel could have called herself anything she wanted to and it would have made no difference. She had briefly considered supplying a false name, but hers was just as unknown, and she would respond to it instinctively. As she spoke, she saw that the Elf, the one named Legolas, was also gauging her words carefully, but it was too late.

"I have never heard of Elves living around Nenuial before, though the Halflings dwell nearby in the Shire," Legolas said suspiciously. "What is your purpose in Lothlórien?"

Sariel berated herself silently for having forgotten that the Elf would be harder to appease with her story than the rest of the group. She felt an extra moment's chagrin when she realized that just a few moments ago she had scorned him for overlooking the obvious fact that she was an Elf and now the tables had turned.

"There are only a few Elves that dwell by the shores of Nenuial, and we have lost touch with our kindred for many years," she said smoothly. It would also explain away any mannerisms of hers that Legolas might consider strange for an Elf. "In recent years, there has been much talk about renewing the contact. I have a message to take to the Lady Galadriel, who is said to be found in Lothlórien."

Legolas began to speak, the Dwarf interrupted him, looking at Sariel carefully. "Do you by any chance know of Arwen, the daughter of Lord Elrond? You are similar in appearance to her."

Sariel had never heard of anyone named Arwen, of course. She knew the name Lord Elrond because she had been sent to Rivendell before, and the name Arwen could have been familiar, but Sariel had never seen the bearer of the name herself. Belderon had purposefully neglected giving her an education in history and Sariel's only memories of the Elven races came from her hazy childhood memories. He had told her to be wary of Galadriel when planning the assassination of the Prince of Mirkwood, but little more.

It still irritated her that he had given her so little information, and the Dwarf reminded Sariel of it now. She was so small when she was taken from Lórien that all she could remember were the golden leaves during autumn, the multitude of colors and the gigantic trees in which they had lived. She knew little of Elvish customs and even less about specific Elves. If this Arwen was well known, Sariel could raise suspicions by having no knowledge of her at all. She scrambled for an answer and an awkward pause ensued while her instincts told her to say something, anything, as soon as possible.

"It is of little importance," Gimli said when the uncomfortable moment proved to withstand time, but Sariel caught the Elf's sapphire gaze and felt truly uneasy for the first time in the whole encounter. "I was merely asking—"

"Can you not answer?" Legolas said to Sariel. Not _will _you, but _can _you. Sariel opened her mouth, unsure of what words would come out, but Gimli saved her again.

"It is impossible for her to be related to the Lady Arwen, if she is from Lake Evendim. Legolas, you know full well that the family trees of your Elven kin do not include Lady Sariel."

To Sariel, he asked, "Do you wish to join us? We are heading towards Lórien ourselves, and we came upon five slain orcs not far from here. You must have some skill with the bow, but it is best used as a long-ranged weapon and you would find more safety traveling with us."

"I killed those orcs," she said quietly, deciding it was best to reveal the information. Aragorn's expression changed at the revelation, but whether he doubted that she was telling the truth, or was reassessing her as a threat, she could not tell. "I first thought you were another menace. Still, I would gladly join your band if your companions agree." She discreetly glanced around at the others' shocked expressions; their surprise was either from her words or Gimli's impulsive offer.

"Please, excuse us," Aragorn said abruptly. "At the very least we can make camp together tonight, as you seem to have chosen this site as your campsite. You may start arranging things to your liking whilst I talk with the others." He swung down from his horse to join Legolas, and the other two dismounted as well.

Sariel nodded, but wondered if this new development would hurt or help her in her task. The companions most certainly had been to Lothlórien before and were probably welcomed there. If she could enter Lórien with them, the Elves would not be so distrustful of her, and she could get to the princeling of Mirkwood with less trouble. It could potentially save her time; she had originally planned to stay in Lórien for a while to build up the Elves' trust in her and to find out more about her target, but she had no idea if the prince of Mirkwood would be staying that long himself.

All Belderon had said was that she would find him there. The sooner she killed the Elf that Belderon was so desperate to get rid of, the sooner she could go back to Nenuial and free her sister and her mother. She did not understand why Belderon acted as if something about this was different. After all, Sariel had been to both Rivendell and Mirkwood, striking quickly based on Belderon's specific descriptions and leaving before the Elves even discovered that one of their own had died. Lothlórien held the formidable Lady Galadriel, but no one had ever stopped Sariel before. The only one she had ever truly feared was Belderon.

* * *

"Did you lose your wits over the side of the boat when we were crossing the Glanduin? How could you simply invite her to accompany us?" The words burst out of the normally calm Aragorn as soon as they had walked a little ways off. His ire overrode his courtesy since he did not seem to care if Sariel could hear or not. "We do not know who she is or whether she is trustworthy and you take it upon yourself to give her such an offer of protection?"

"Let us go further," Legolas suggested, clearly discomfited. "Aragorn, remember that she can probably hear us." In fact, he knew that Sariel could hear them. They went barely further before Aragorn began to speak again. Legolas made everyone continue walking as they fell into heated discussion.

"She told us what she is going to do in Lothlórien; she is taking a message to the Lady of Light. What else do you want to know—what the message is?" Gimli said, becoming angry himself. He could not see what all the fuss was about over something as practical as joining company with someone going to the same place as they were.

"Yes, I do!" Aragorn retorted, lowering his voice a little, but not much. He also stopped walking completely. "Master Dwarf, do you not realize that we know next to nothing of her? I have never heard of Elves from Nenuial and I daresay Legolas has not either."

Legolas vocally confirmed it, but kept out of the argument. He instinctively trusted other Elves, but he understood that Aragorn had no real reason to, despite his childhood with Elrond. Gimli would have been an odd champion once, but his friendship with Legolas had changed things.

"She has explained that they have lost contact with others. It is called trust, Aragorn, trust! Have you never heard of such a thing before?"

Seeing Aragorn's countenance, Legolas intervened and quickly put a calming hand on the man's shoulder. "What is the matter with you, friend? Such great suspicion is not like you."

"Why should we trust her?" Aragorn said, quieter now, but voice still scathing. "Trust is earned, not bestowed like a gift! As for Gimli's reasoning, I am beginning to doubt if he can even think."

Gimli put a hand on his axe, truly incensed at the insult, but Legolas quickly put his other hand on his arm, and looked at Boromir meaningfully.

"He spoke foolishly, Gimli, you know Aragorn does not mean it," said Boromir, unwillingly pushed into the role of mediator. Arguments rarely rose between the companions and it was hard to imagine that a mere Elf could have caused so much of a problem. "It is only anger that makes him speak so. I say we should at least give her a chance before condemning her. There is no reason to disbelieve what she has told us."

"Boromir is right; there is no reason for you to be acting as if Gimli has committed some grave error. Besides, in a fortnight we'll be in Lórien, so we will not be with her long," Legolas said, not very troubled by the quarreling but wishing to bring it to an end.

"All right, but you know you are blinded by her appearance, Gimli. The most beautiful things in the world are often the most useless, and I will watch her carefully even if you do not. Do not be so easily inclined to trust all Elves, wise one!" Aragorn strode off towards the river, the set of his shoulders showing his mood clearly.

Gimli and Boromir were about to go after him, but Legolas stopped them with a quick shake of his head. "Let it go," he said, even though he himself was slightly exasperated. Do not be so easily inclined to trust all Elves, indeed! It was nearly a personal insult after the long years of friendship he had shared with Aragorn. He hoped it was a temporary irrationality, given the reason why they were traveling to Lothlórien.

"I cannot see what is wrong with him today," Legolas said to the others. "Aragorn has been anxious these days, and perhaps Sariel reminds him of Arwen and all the trials they face together. It is not such an easy thing, knowing that your beloved willingly chooses to face a mortal death for your sake, when one could have all of eternity to live."

Legolas did not look at his companions, for he was still troubled for Arwen Undómiel and Aragorn, two of his oldest and dearest friends. They, more than many, deserved happiness, and yet it was a great thing to overcome the chasm between mortal and immortal, Human and Elf. Even with the blessings of Galadriel and Celeborn…but only time could tell the future.

Shaking off his sober thoughts, he came back to the present and its immediate concerns. "I will go tell Sariel she can stay."

* * *

Sariel smiled, but quickly concealed it beneath a demure expression as Legolas came to tell her the news, not knowing that she had heard almost all of the conversation. Her already sensitive hearing was slightly more acute than that of other Elves, enhanced by even more endless training under Belderon. She had been able to make out large parts of their argument, especially when Aragorn spoke.

"I hope that we have not offended you," Legolas said after the news was conveyed and Sariel made appropriate thankful remarks. "Please do not feel as if you are not welcome."

Having heard the debate that had preceded the decision, Sariel could not honestly respond to that. Instead, she gave vague remarks, wishing that Legolas would return to his companions. However, to her dismay, it soon became clear that he was intent on making up for any ill feeling Sariel might have experienced. Unused to conversation with others, Sariel found herself hard pressed and a sense of awkwardness accompanied her responses, making Legolas try even more to put her at ease. Eventually, the talk turned to weapons, finally something that Sariel was comfortable with.

"Where did you get your daggers?" Legolas asked hesitantly, settling on the uninspired subject but hoping that the answer could prove interesting. He had noted them before, and thought they looked as if they had been made by Elves of Lórien.

Sariel sighed inwardly, preferring to have kept to less personal talk. If Legolas kept questioning her, her simple story would be complicated and if she forgot what she said before, he would know she was lying. Under different circumstances, Sariel might have enjoyed conversing with an Elf, the first of her kin she had befriended since over a millennia ago. Instead, this was testing her in ways she was ill prepared for. She was not traveling with them to make friends, it was expedient, and that was all.

"My father gave them to me but I do not know where he got them," she said, taking them out and handing them over to Legolas, hoping that it would stall more questions. They were simple, unadorned with jewels, hilts wrapped with supple black leather. Nothing about them stood out but they were very well made and Sariel had taken good care of them. He examined them, tested their balance and weight, and returned them to her. Sariel fought the curiosity that made her want to ask for his blades in return. She could see that he wore them with casual familiarity.

"What was said earlier, about your resemblance to Lady Arwen? I hope you do not misunderstand, for a favorable comparison. It is strange that you have not heard of her beauty, the Evenstar of my people." He considered this last part, and realized that it could be taken as an insult. "Yours, too, of course. You truly look alike enough to be distant kin. Both of you have lovely black hair, although she has grey eyes rather than blue. Yours are the hue of sapphires in sunlight."

Taken aback by the sudden flattery, Sariel's estimation of the Elf dropped. She inwardly winced at the shallowness of his remark, although he had meant it as a compliment. She had finally felt more at ease with him, but her life had not encouraged her to be aware of appearances. The face she had seen most often was Belderon's, not her own, and the things she considered valuable were matters of life and death, not beauty. Beauty deceived, for was not Belderon handsome, his pale eyes bright? Still, he seemed to be waiting for a response, so she gave him one that she thought suited him. "You must be much admired yourself."

"Not so," he replied instantly, with a harsh edge to his voice that caused her to turn her head sharply to look at him. "Beauty is a thing of the soul and not of mirrors, and I have had little patience for those who seek a…for those who seek special positions and are blinded by fairness, equating it with inward attractiveness."

A strange rebuttal, given what he had said, but Sariel concluded that at least his compliments seemed to separate the aesthetic from delusions of added meaning. Sariel's eyes were blue, but Legolas had not meant to say that she was attractive beyond his appreciation of their color. This both confused and slightly disappointed her, although Sariel was unclear of exactly what distinction Legolas was making. However, she knew she had judged him too quickly.

Legolas did not seem to want to clarify, so Sariel asked innocuous questions about his companions, getting to know the background of those she would be traveling with. The group was an odd one, with two Men, one Dwarf, and one Elf. She wondered why they were all traveling to Lórien together, but ruthlessly quelled the urge to ask the Elf next to her. It would not do to let her curiosity get the better of her just because he had been friendly. As an assassin, she could not afford to let anyone too close. It would start with things like asking questions, but having the expectation that he would answer was a weakness. It was only common sense that overtures of friendship were dangerous to someone in her position.

_And yet I almost wish I could_, she thought. _I wish he would stop being so graciously sociable and leave me alone. _Yet she also wanted to know about him, to see if what she imagined matched up with the reality. She rose and started to wander off into the forest, hoping he would get the message and not follow her. She did not look back to see if he did.

It was always her imagination that she had to control, and along with it, the hopeful feeling in her chest that she could not banish when she went over every detail of their conversation later in her mind, ostensibly to make sure her story was straight. But Sariel knew that she was memorizing his responses as much as her own.

* * *

It did not occur to Sariel that Legolas himself would be shocked by his candor, but he found himself uneasily examining their encounter as well. He was not given to reveal much of himself, and yet he had almost told her, a stranger, how some had tried to gain a place in his heart—not actually wanting him, but angling for a crown, or at least a circlet. It was not a mistake he would usually make. Thankfully, he had caught himself and she had not noticed anything strange. The entire conversation had been riddled with discomfort in any case and his attempts had fallen short. Legolas sighed, causing Gimli to look at him strangely. It was best to put it all out of his mind. These things were only significant if one made it significant.

She was unusual, that was why. It was not as if he could hold a decent conversation with many of the gentler persuasion, or that he had the opportunities to, often roaming around far away from his home as he did. Her fighting skills were impressive, given the five orc bodies they had discovered, and since she knew nothing about him and evidenced no interest, even after his blatant remark, Legolas was put at ease.

Only Arwen was his friend, and that was probably because even his parents understood her heart was irretrievably given to Aragorn. It was only in recent months that Legolas identified the source of his discontent: he wanted a friend he could talk to, someone who would understand him as Aragorn or Gimli did, not one that flirted and expected charming remarks or little gifts. The courting games had never held his interest, and the fact that he was the heir to a rather large domain increased the complexity of such exchanges. True, the chances that he would be called to inherit were slim, but he had duties, and enough trouble accepting those without adding to them.

Uncomplicated understanding seemed very hard to find. Arwen would not be a close friend for long now, for she had found her love and was sacrificing much to keep it. With her, Aragorn was going to have his own life to tend to, not to mention an entire kingdom and people filled with great expectations. Legolas doubted that he would ever find someone he trusted enough, loved enough, to have made Arwen's decision. What was bittersweet to her would only be bitter to him, because he envied her a little for having found her perfect companion, however imperfect their life together.

His companions seemed to sense his pensive mood, leaving him well alone. Legolas could tell that Aragorn was troubled, love and other things in his friend's thoughts. It was a quiet night, and he began to think of what the journey to Lórien, now with the addition of Sariel, would mean. She was an ideal choice for a distant and yet entertaining friend, because she would soon leave and it was not likely that they would meet again. Yet there was a reluctance in Legolas to attempt it, which had everything to do with being tired of temporary things. Sariel could not be the friend he wished for because he did not truly want to make such a brief acquaintance.

He saw the kind of passion that he saw in Arwen and Aragorn's eyes, the devotion that extended beyond life. Having seen the possibilities, he found himself wondering if they were for him, or if they waited for him in Lórien of the waking dreams.

* * *

A/N: Please take a moment to review, even with just a few words. Critiques are always welcome and if you noticed any typos, I would be eternally grateful if you'd point them out.

_Finalized June 2008 _


	3. In the Golden Woods

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

Disclaimer: Written with all respect towards J.R.R. Tolkien. No copyright infringement intended. "I would draw some of the great tales in fullness, and leave many open places in the scheme…the cycles should be linked to a majestic whole, and yet leave scope for other minds and hands, wielding paint and music and drama." – J.R.R. Tolkien, _Letters_.

Pronunciation: "C always has the value of k, never of s; thus Celeborn is Keleborn, not Seleborn" (384, _The Silmarillion_).

Translations:

_mellon n__í__n_: my friend

_mae govannen_: well met

_aranna nín_: forgive me

_Eirien_: daisy

Please note that there are two Eldar languages, Sindarin and Quenya.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Into the Golden Wood**

* * *

Sariel was content to watch Aragorn and Boromir riding in the front, leading the way. With Myste, she was to the right of Legolas, with Gimli on the left. Although some tension lingered between Aragorn and herself, the traveling arrangements had largely satisfied everyone, and no further conflict had been caused by her addition. Soon, the band had reached Nimrodel, where Aragorn allowed them to take a short rest.

As they traveled closer to Lothlórien, Sariel's companions became increasingly lighthearted and carefree, yet her own mood darkened. She spent much of the time attempting to compose a plausible message to the Lady Galadriel. Now that she had stated her purpose for journeying to Lórien, she was stuck with the story she had created. However, Belderon would not want her to use his name, yet Sariel had to invent a reason to explain why a few Elves had relocated to Lake Evendim and broken off contact with others of their race. She also had to find time to actually write the message and privacy was suddenly, for once in her life, difficult to obtain.

Legolas and Gimli continued their overtures of friendship and all of the companions except for Sariel seemed to look forward to their arrival in Lórien. Sariel had to refrain time and time again from inquiring too much about their purpose; clearly it was a visit for pleasure rather than business, and that was all she truly needed to know. The Elf often sang songs solely for enjoyment while Gimli rapturously described the wonders of Lórien to her, unaware that Sariel had lived there during her childhood. His gruff yet enthusiastic manner spoke of a special devotion to the Lady of the Golden Wood. Both songs and tales stirred feelings of nostalgia as they called forth half-forgotten memories of things that took place in another Sariel's life. This Sariel could not think of her arrival at Lórien as a homecoming.

Aragorn eventually softened toward her when she proved to be an asset and not a distraction. Sariel's choice to hold herself distant from her newfound companions seemed to assure him, when in fact Sariel was also wary of seeming too affectionate toward any of them. As hours passed at night in conversation, however, Sariel relented in her circumspection. Belderon seemed far, far away, and her relationship with her companions would not interfere with her task. She quickly saw that Aragorn was admirable and respected him. As for the others, Legolas was a pleasant companion and Gimli often lifted her spirits, although not always intentionally. Boromir kept to himself, which suited Sariel.

Freedom was hard to resist even when she knew perfectly well in her heart that it was an illusion. It had been so long, so many years almost beyond comprehension, since she had talked to another Elf other than Belderon or her family. Almost three thousand years. Within a few days, Sariel knew that she was attracted to Legolas, but also knew that it would have been the same with any other Elf that treated her with a modicum of amity. She wanted to be close to him because it was natural; she wanted to let her eyes drink in the perfect tips of his ears, the familiar way his hair was gathered back with braids, and the smooth Elvish skin that was unique to their race.

Friendship, or at least the impression of it, was the temptation that she, the experienced, cold-blooded assassin, could not completely resist. When the campfire died to mere glowing embers, Sariel could pick out the Dwarf's snoring over the deep, even breathing of Aragorn. Sometimes she heard Boromir's faint mutterings as he addressed someone in his sleep, and when she lay down on her side to rest after taking second watch, the pale gleam of golden hair in moonlight always seemed visible. She could not become reserved and dispassionate as Belderon had taught her to be. She had never conversed with a Dwarf, or with humans, but she vaguely remembered that she had once overheard talk about a ranger by the name of Aragorn, and how he was raised by the Elves and even given an Elven name, Elessar, as well as Estel, or 'Hope.' It was such an insignificant thing, and yet it made Aragorn familiar to her, a part of her reminiscences.

Above even Aragorn's obvious leadership, Sariel was fascinated by the relationship between Legolas and Gimli. The natural enmity between the two races had been overridden by shared experiences, but the friendship that came out of it was sometimes contentious, often competitive. In the mornings, Sariel would observe them as they pretended to bicker and she would marvel. It was all so different from anything she had ever known. How could she not desire to experience it?

As they reached Lórien, Sariel finally found an opportunity to steal away and write a message that could pass for truth. Her 'uncle,' Beliron, had asked her to take a letter from Nenuial to Lothlórien. Although the Elves of Nenuial had kept themselves apart for many centuries, he wished to warn the Lady and Lord of Lothlórien that he had observed drastic increases in the number of orcs and unusual behavior from them. It seemed that they were forming an army, loosely rallying together under a leader. Lórien was a possible destination.

The message was not altogether fictitious. In the past few months, Sariel had met orcs in large bands around Nenuial. Belderon had often used such creatures during Sariel's endless training, seeing them as useful targets for her practice, yet now he chose to ally himself with them. In fact, Sariel suspected that Belderon was partially responsible for their growing numbers, but he would hardly reveal his reasons to her.

Her message now complete, she turned to the problem of a plausible reason for her to stay in Lórien _after _she had delivered the news. Galadriel would most likely want to send a message back to 'Beliron' but it would not be necessary. Sariel could argue that 'Beliron' wanted to use the opportunity for her to research some materials and to renew ties with the Elves of Lórien. The exact details could be glossed over, as Sariel could plead ignorance, and it was not far from the truth—she had limited knowledge, especially of history, since Belderon had kept her from scholarly pursuits. Lothlórien, as a place of learning, boasted a great library. Surely the Lady Galadriel would allow her permission to use it, as sharing knowledge was a benefit to all.

Content with her story, Sariel allowed herself to relax as they approached the borders of the famed Elven haven. For the first time, she fully appreciated the melodies that Legolas wove, his voice evoking the mysteries that made Lórien once known as the Valley of Singing Gold. Enthralled despite herself, Sariel could only beg for more, and he usually succumbed to her requests. Thus figuratively and literally in harmony, the companions crossed the Celebrant. Then Aragorn called for a halt, taking the opportunity to draw Legolas to the side and to converse with him.

Sariel watched, curious as to what was happening. She knew that there were border guards, but much had probably changed since she had last been in Lórien. Certainly, she had become an entirely different person. She listened to the whisperings of the great trees around her, clenching Myste's reins tightly in her hands when she wondered if the forest could sense the criminal presence that had entered its sanctuary. She came here not for rest and healing, but for bloodshed. Sariel shivered and forced herself to sit up in the saddle, stiffening her spine. Myste shifted uneasily beneath her but none of her companions paid her much attention, for the flaxen-haired Elf had started to call out a strangely familiar name, apparently speaking to no one she could see. The dark-barked and mossy trees muffled the sound, as if the forest were trying to swallow the disturbance.

"Haldir! Haldir, _mellon n__í__n_…" he called out to the silent forest. The others took up the cry, and Sariel self-consciously wondered what they were doing. Had they all turned mad? Could they not feel how they did not _belong_? But a bare moment passed before they were suddenly surrounded by tall, grey-clad Elves bearing great bows of some silvery wood. The first thing that Sariel noticed was that her own bow was fashioned exactly in the same way, though of a different wood, and that the bow that Legolas bore matched the ones held by the strangers. He had told her before that his was a gift; she knew now the givers. In the next moment, however, their leader made himself apparent. Sariel looked into his face and gasped in recognition, the sound unheard over the exchanged greetings.

"_Mae govannen, Legolas_," the Elf said with a brief smile. It did not look as if one often crossed his face.

"Well met, Haldir," Legolas answered back easily, directing the conversation into a language accessible by all. The companions and the Elf spoke more, but Sariel looked away from them all, not wanting to see Haldir.

"…and this is Lady Sariel of Nenuial, bearing a message for the Lady Galadriel and the Lord Celeborn. We met some days ago and have been traveling together since."

Haldir looked at her curiously for a long time and then cocked his head slightly as if thinking of some half forgotten memory. "So alike…I once knew…" he murmured distractedly. Then he seemed to realize that Legolas, Aragorn, and the others, including his own Elves, were all staring at him. Sariel kept her eyes lowered, heart beating faster and hoping that he would not remember. Was this why Belderon had been so anxious, because Lórien still held living pieces of her past?

"_Aranna n__í__n_, the one I speak of is no longer in this world and you cannot possibly be her, though the resemblance is strong," Haldir said, composing himself again. He made up for his lapse so gracefully that the curiosity on the faces of Sariel's companions soon faded. "Welcome, Lady Sariel. I am Haldir, marchwarden of Lothlórien. We will stay the night in Cerin Ambroth and go on to Lórien the next day."

They obediently followed the others, Sariel remaining quiet although Gimli and Boromir spoke in hushed whispers. Unused to fear, Sariel could not help but feel as if there was an oppressive quality to Lórien's beauty. Or was she the only one so disturbed? Legolas laughed as he spoke with Haldir and even Aragorn was exchanging information with a few of the other Elves that still accompanied them. Most had melted back into the forest, disappearing as quickly as shadows.

Haldir led them a little further and then they lightly climbed up the massive trees in order to reach the _flets, _the platforms built upon the branches. Lightly for Sariel, Legolas, and the Elves, that was. Aragorn followed cautiously but without fear, while Boromir and Gimli had some trouble. Sariel kept her eyes on the rough bark beneath her hands, unwilling to gaze upon their guide. _He has not changed much, _Sariel mused, _or I would not have recognized him._ Haldir turned back to graciously offer his assistance though they both knew she did not need it. Sariel put her hand briefly in his, unable to ignore a sharp pang of something much like regret.

Early in her childhood, when they had explored the woods together, she could remember Haldir looking exactly as he did now. She permitted herself a brief sad smile as she recalled her childish affection for Vanidar, one of the trio of friends made up of Haldir, Vanidar, and herself. Vanidar, who had then been her best friend, whom she had been embarrassingly infatuated with. Vanidar, who was the closest to her in age in the whole of Lothlórien, a mere twenty or so years younger. Among the Elves, it was as if they grew up together, as indeed they had.

Sariel sternly told herself to stop thinking of her childhood. Those days were past, though she strangely regretted how Haldir had not truly recognized her. Yet she knew it was because her once-friend thought that she had died thousands of years ago, along with her family. Of course, Belderon had changed her a great deal as well. If someone had told Sariel then that two thousand years later she would have become an assassin, Sariel the girl-child would have worried for their sanity. It was to her best interest that Haldir would not connect the pieces, but she almost wished that he did. But he could not rescue her now as he had once rescued her from a dangerous slip off a cliff.

That night, she shared a _flet _with Aragorn and Gimli. Legolas slept with the other Elves, Haldir's brothers. No watch had been assigned, but Haldir remained awake and alert on their _flet_. Sariel did not sleep well, haunted by fragmented memories long suppressed.

* * *

In the morning, they journeyed onward to the City of the Galadrium. The Elves there welcomed them and sent others to notify the Lady and the Lord that visitors had arrived. They arranged a meeting for the company, notifying them that Galadriel would receive everyone soon, but was unable to meet them immediately.

As Sariel and the others neared their rooms, a dark-haired blur ran to Aragorn. At first concerned for his safety, Sariel drew her knives and prepared to attack, only stopping when Legolas grabbed her arm firmly. Sariel's eyes widened at the scene unfolding before her: the newcomer was a beautiful raven-haired Elf and she was hugging the mortal overly fondly! Sariel glanced at Legolas, but he and the rest did not seem surprised and were even smiling at the pair, calling out greetings to the stranger and making jokes about reunited lovers. Although the stranger's grey eyes flickered to meet Sariel's, the companions ushered her away with Aragorn, clearly intent on leaving the mortal and Elf pair alone. Sariel was glad that it all happened before introductions could be made, for she did not know how to react appropriately to the surprise.

As the others found their rooms and started to unpack, she turned questioning eyes to Legolas, who drew her into a room, apparently his, and motioned for her to sit down. His eyes were unusually serious as he began to explain,

"That was the Lady Arwen, daughter of Elrond, Lord of Rivendell. She was the one that I said looked akin to you when we first met, do you remember? Galadriel is her grandmother and she is here, as is Aragorn, to ask for the Lady and Lord's blessings upon their marriage. Aragorn asked us if we wished to accompany him and of course we agreed, once we knew his purpose. I have been here once before, but I never thought I would have the chance to come back to such a place of wisdom and beauty. Aragorn and Arwen first met here, long ago." Legolas smiled at the thought, a faraway look in his eyes. Sariel could see that he was clearly happy for both of his old friends.

"But…an Elf wed to a mortal? Has this ever happened before?" she asked, unable to hide her shock.

"There have been, in the past, Elves who have given up their immortality to live their lives with a mortal loved one. These Elves are very few in number; they live strange lives." Legolas chose his next words carefully, but spoke with conviction. "It is my belief that this will not matter much for Aragorn and Arwen. What they have done to finally be in each other's arms… Their love has been stronger than any of their struggles, and I cannot see this difference in race as a barrier between them."

Sariel said nothing more, lost in thought though not as surprised as before. The intensity with which Legolas spoke and the slight tension in his body made her wonder if he would be willing to make such a sacrifice for someone he truly loved. He seemed comfortable with the idea of Arwen and Aragorn, but she was not, or at least not yet. It was not the concept of giving up immortality that bothered her; she often wished that she and her family could die, freed of the half-life that they lived. No, it was the idea that two people could find love and happiness with so many differences between their races, only symbolized by the disparity in natural length of life.

"Thank you for explaining, I understand now," she said slowly at last. Legolas was content with that, knowing that she needed time to adjust to the new information. He momentarily regretted not broaching the subject earlier, but Sariel had always been distant until the last few days of their journey, which made speaking of love difficult.

An awkward silence descended between them as they sat beside each other, neither speaking. Sariel seemed lost in her thoughts and Legolas found himself looking at her out of the corner of his eye, wondering if he could ask for her to share them. Did she not have a loved one yet, a heart's mate? Would she not be willing to forgo what Arwen had, if she found such a person? Observing her, Legolas thought that she looked more puzzled than anything else. She did not reject Aragorn and Arwen's choice as a few other Elves had done; it was more as if she could not comprehend it. The idea was somehow more distressing to Legolas, who thought that the contemplative look in her eyes when she finally turned to him seemed a little sad.

She finally stood, the bed moving only slightly at the absence of her weight. "Could you show me where my chambers are?"

"Certainly," Legolas replied, standing as well. "Perhaps tomorrow you will meet Arwen. I will be glad to introduce you to her."

Her room, as Sariel found out, was right across the hall from his, no more than four steps away. She felt her cheeks color, her pride stinging a bit when she thought of how foolish she must have sounded to have asked for help. Mustering up a few words of goodbye, Sariel gave her thanks to Legolas before they left each other.

For the rest of the night, Sariel thought about Arwen and Aragorn, as well as Legolas, who had told her about them. He had sounded different when he spoke of love, as if he believed in Arwen and Aragorn's relationship but not in the possibility for himself. It was a melancholy thought and did not help raise Sariel's spirits, so she let her mind wander and imagined instead the blond Elf running away from dozens upon dozens of starry-eyed females clad in beautiful, wispy gowns. The image she had concocted was so richly absurd, down to the horrified expression on his face, that Sariel found herself laughing. She stopped abruptly when the sound rang out in the quiet room, becoming uneasy. She could not remember when she had last heard herself laugh and it was a sign that she was forgetting her purpose.

She would have to work on finding the prince of Mirkwood, and tomorrow there was the audience with Galadriel and Celeborn, where she would have to have all her concentration on lying without being caught. It was not an easy thing to deceive an Elf, and the Lady Galadriel was no ordinary Elf. Sariel was tempted to ask Legolas about her target, but it would not be wise to show too much interest. He knew that she would be returning to Nenuial and it would not do to encourage the connection once she had killed. As foolish as it was to care, Sariel did not want her first friends to ever discover that she was the assassin—but inevitably, after the death, they would know. Occupied by such dismal thoughts, Sariel was startled when a knock sounded at her door.

Before she had time to react, a fair-haired Elf came in to take her travel stained clothing, staring curiously though not impolitely at her. The girl, Eirien, asked a few questions but kept them generic, speaking of the weather and the journey. Sariel used the opportunity to inquire about the library, knowing full well beforehand that one existed. Eirien told her that she could show Sariel the place, but Sariel declined for now. She would no doubt be occupied the next day with her meeting with Arwen, so tomorrow night she would explore and attempt to find out all she could about the mysterious Prince of Mirkwood through the servants—perhaps including where he slept.

* * *

Legolas and Arwen walked through the gardens in the moonlit darkness, remembering all the times their friendship as children had gotten them in trouble. Their conversation flowed easily as they recounted their experiences. There were so many shared memories between them, the strands of their lives interwoven as much by coincidence as by deliberation. There was the first time that Arwen had confessed to Legolas that she loved Aragorn and now, finally, that particular story was cumulating in true happiness.

"Lothlórien is aptly named as Dreamflower, the Dream of the Blossom," Legolas mused as they passed by a stream, its water turned silver. "It seems to be a place of dreams coming true, yet gives the impression that time here lasts no longer than the life of a delicate flower. Time flows slowly here."

"It is because this is a place of immortal Elves," Arwen answered him, bending down to dip her hand into the crystal clear water. It was ice cold and she let it trickle out of her palm in sparkling drops, reunifying with the water flowing in the stream.

"Yes," said Legolas. "Yet even we are not truly immortal, for that implies that we can never die, and that is untrue. Time merely does not affect us, as it does humans. Death from old age, sickness—those we are immune to, but the same magic does not turn aside an arrow in the heart or the cleaving axes of the orcs."

"Nothing is truly immortal but the gods, Legolas. Would you wish it otherwise?"

"No, I think not. We are considered young by others, and yet already I grow weary sometimes. The blithe happiness that I knew has faded as I have seen more of the world, and its darkness."

"But there is happiness still," Arwen whispered to him, her voice ever gentle. "Even the beauty of the most fragile dream flower is never completely lost, as long as you have the heart to cherish it."

They were quiet after that, but it was a peaceful silence. It was always like that between them—they comforted each other, one serving as the mirror to reflect a truth the other could not see. Arwen had expected to be the one being reassured, but it seemed if some things had been weighing on her friend's heart as well.

"What do you think of Sariel, Arwen?" Legolas asked after a while, surprising her in the sudden change of subject...or perhaps it was not so strange. Quick to discern her friend's moods, Arwen thought that perhaps all of it was related.

"I have not known her long," Arwen said hesitantly. "You cannot ask me to judge a person on the basis of a day, even with the time we spent in conversation."

Legolas lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug but, Arwen noted, persisted. "Tell me your first impressions, then. Indulge my whim."

"She seems…secretive," Arwen said finally, wanting to be honest but regretting that it was the first adjective that came to mind. "It seems peculiar, but I feel as if I know her from somewhere. Did you know that Haldir was almost ready to swear that he knew her? He was thinking about it all night, he told me. He said that he had once known another of the same name, and also with black hair and dark blue eyes. Is that not too much for coincidence, or has fate truly played such a trick?"

Seeing that Legolas was about to interrupt, Arwen shook her head, forestalling his objections. "Haldir said that the Sariel he knew was slain when she was just nearing her coming of age in Lothlórien. It seemed very painful for him to speak of it, so I did not question why, but is it not also strange for an Elf of Lórien to be killed and at such a young age? I am tempted to believe that his Sariel is the one I met."

"How can you call her secretive?" Legolas argued, conveniently forgetting that for most of the journey, Sariel had kept all her companions at an arm's distance. There was an undercurrent of heat in his voice, which became obvious as he continued. "Even if your conjectures are true, they are all based on Haldir's thoughts and memories. Sariel herself shows no recognition of him or Lórien!"

Arwen's stunned silence beside him made Legolas suddenly aware that his outburst was quite uncharacteristic and uncalled for. He had wanted to hear her impressions, and yet had acted as if he had expected her to respond a certain way. Arwen had merely been truthful. Legolas began to apologize for his harsh tone, struggling to explain away his rash response, but the black-haired Elf silenced him with a look.

Arwen had rarely heard Legolas speak this way to her and never while discussing another person. Instead of being angry with him, she gave him a small half-smile. "You have spent some time with her during your journey here," she murmured. "She is fair, is she not? I have seen you looking at her, when you think that no one will notice."

"Although one may be fair of face, it is no promise of beauty inside," Legolas replied shortly, strides a little longer. Not even to Arwen did he ever voice his loneliness. He did not want another ornament to catch the eye with false glitter and he felt as if that was what Arwen was suggesting.

"It is not difficult to see why you might defend her, Legolas. Like you, she avoids attachment to others, hiding her own wishes behind a cold mask. Like you, she has devoted herself to training and has achieved extraordinary skill with weapons." Arwen looked steadily at her friend, unafraid to voice her thoughts. "It is only natural for you to be fond of her, but what is surprising is that she has somehow penetrated your reserve."

"I am not fond of her and she has done nothing," Legolas said, refusing to look at Arwen, especially because he could feel his cheeks burn with color, though whether from temper or embarrassment even he himself did not know. "We are not friends."

Undeterred, Arwen shook her head in contradiction. "But the two of you are more than acquaintances, and you rarely bother. Your reputation as courteous but aloof is one that was fairly earned, my friend."

"Not by my choice," Legolas said softly. "Not when my people see one of their leaders first, and I, second. Not when my father encourages them to respect my title, making it mean more than it should."

Now Arwen stopped walking and turned to him with a thoughtful frown. "I can see it in your eyes that you have begun to care for her," she said. "Or more importantly, you have allowed yourself to do so, and that is a choice. Perhaps you are not entirely free, Legolas, but who on this earth is?"

Legolas chose to remain silent.

"You are an enigma, others say when they have nothing better to do, and idle away their time wondering what kind of person could touch your guarded heart. Come, Legolas, surely under that handsome exterior hides a soul searching for love?" Arwen's voice was light, purposefully mocking.

"Not likely," he said, feeling out of sorts and discomfited by the fact that what she was saying seemed to echo his own thoughts these days. Arwen would not tease him about something as serious as love, but she was not above provoking him if she thought it was not true. That implied that she had some sort of reason for finding the notion ridiculous. Was it so unlikely that he would lose his heart to someone, someday? For some reason, this irritated Legolas far more than the teasing itself.

"You are in love, so you expect the rest of the world to be," he told Arwen. "Everywhere I am beset by strangers speaking of romance, asking me why I do not sing of such things but prefer other melodies. I smile and make light of their curiosity, and they become more determined than ever. Great Elbereth, will the world never tire of it! You were like me, before, but now at least you have Aragorn!"

His last remarks stung her, Legolas saw, but his frustration had boiled over. Arwen looked overwhelmingly contrite and if Legolas had not regretted betraying his envy when he had spoken, he certainly did now. He began walking again and Arwen followed in silence. They both knew that he was right. Although Arwen had many barriers to overcome on the subject of her union with Aragorn, she had found love relatively early, and Aragorn's devotion to her was never in doubt. "I am sorry, Legolas; it is not fair for me to speak to you so."

She stopped walking by one of the forks in the path and waited for him to do the same, leaning against the carved stone arch. When he strode on, not noticing that she had stopped, she reached out and caught him by the arm. She was surprised to find how tense his muscles were under the soft material of his clothing, more evidence that she had touched a sore point with him. It made her feel even more repentant.

"Legolas?" she asked.

He sighed and relaxed a little, tugging a white moonflower from its vine. "I did not mean to argue with you, Arwen. I have missed you, and you already have more than enough to think about. Forgive me."

Arwen looked at her friend, who seemed so lighthearted and blithe to all those that saw him, and knew he made light of many things. Legolas had always been like that for as long as she could remember. Others described him as high-spirited and vivacious, but only because he rarely let people see what he truly felt about things. He was a study in contradictions. He moved a little further down the path and she followed.

"Legolas, do you not believe that you will find someone to love? I know I am lucky to have Aragorn, though some would disagree." She smiled wryly. "I found love in spite of everything, but do you not think it is possible for you, too?"

"I cannot say, Arwen. All I know is that it is difficult enough to find a friend I can trust." Legolas looked down, a part of him indeed wishing that he could believe in the kind of future Arwen described. Then he laughed, and it was so characteristically of him to do so to ease the tension between them, though Arwen, listening closely, heard a note of unhappiness in what seemed to be a cheerful sound. "It matters not."

"Does it not, Legolas? Truly?"

They walked on for quite a bit and he never answered. At last they came to a garden of briar roses that climbed all over the colorless marble arches. The white roses were nearly incandescent in the moonlight, but the red ones intertwining with them looked black.

"Will you truly give up your immortality for him?" he said quietly, not looking at her. They both knew whom he was speaking of.

"You know the answer to that, Legolas. I love him too much to bear losing him to time whilst I live on forever," Arwen said somberly. "Time is our greatest sorrow, and yet it is the essence of our existence."

"I will miss you, Arwen," Legolas whispered softly, wishing it did not have to be this way, but knowing it was for the best.

"I know, Legolas. Sometimes I wish that everything could last forever, but instead, we must seek out what happiness is there for us, and hold on to it while we can."

* * *

Early the next morning, two days after they had arrived, Eirien came and told Sariel to prepare for the meeting with Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. Sariel had not originally expected to do so, but her plans had changed after meeting Aragorn and the group. Fortunately, Belderon had given her a formal dress that Eirien proclaimed to be appropriate for the occasion. It was deep blue with delicate silver embroidery on the neckline, hemline, and sleeves. It was relatively simple compared to what Eirien had offered to loan to her from another lady, but Sariel's dress had an elegant cut and matched the hue of her eyes perfectly. Remembering what Legolas had said about them, she suppressed a grin while she dressed. Beneath the gown, she wore a flowing, ruffled white dress that peeked out from under her hem and from the flared sleeves, giving extra grace to her every move and making her actions apparently effortless.

Eirien was a considerate helper and helped her comb the shining black of her hair, released from its practical braid. A bit of her hair from just above her ears became two slim braids intertwined with a fragile thread of silver ribbon. The rest of her hair was loose and fell in waves nearly to her waist. Of all her features, Sariel cared only about her hair. Unlike her golden-haired mother, her father's hair had been dark, and she was glad to have inherited it. Her shoes completed the ensemble but they could barely be seen beneath the froth of her white dress. The total effect was decorous and innocent. It was the latter impression that made Sariel feel uncomfortable, despite Eirien's approval.

Belderon had contacted her the night before and she had asked for him to release the magic so that she could take off the little hourglass-shaped vial of blood—Belderon's and Sariel's mingled blood. He had consented and had further relayed to her that with Galadriel so near, he would not be able to contact her as often. The communications every other night would cease except for necessary orders. Sariel had inwardly rejoiced.

Now, she took off the vial, unable to suppress a shudder as she caught sight of the red fluid in the bottom half of the hourglass. She put on silver jewelry with dark sapphires matching her dress: a bracelet, earrings, and two matching, minute teardrop sapphires to attach to the end of the twin silver and black braids. They were almost lost in the rest of her hair. All the jewels were tiny and the jewelry did not attract attention, serving only to enhance the overall effect. A necklace was included in the set, but Sariel could not bring herself to put it on.

The Elf escorted her to the audience chamber, where she met with Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and Boromir. All were dressed in equal finery, Aragorn in somber black and gold, Legolas in forest green with silver, Boromir also in black, but with dark blue and white, and Gimli in blue and grey. Arwen also came out in a magnificent, shimmering white silk dress embroidered sparingly with gold and an almost invisible silver-white; a perfect match for Aragorn. They entered the room with Aragorn and Arwen in the lead, and Sariel had her first look of the lord and lady of Lothlórien since early childhood.

Galadriel was as beautiful and commanding as she remembered and Lord Celeborn looked exactly like she expected. Neither showed any sign of age, as it is with Elves, but to Sariel it seemed that their eyes looked wiser than ever. Sariel's hand tightened slightly around the rolled parchment in her grasp, rehearsing what she would say inside her head silently, determined to make no slips. When Galadriel's gaze seemed to pierce her through and through, all thoughts fled Sariel's mind, which she realized was probably for the better. _Everything hinges on this_, she thought, nerves roiling in her stomach, and tried not to meet the two gazes that could read her soul.

Then there was no time for thought or anxiety, as an Elf near the entrance announced, "The audience with the Lady Galadriel and the Lord Celeborn, of our fair realm of Lothlórien, shall begin."

* * *

A/N: **Please review**! This chapter was edited drastically, as it was truly an embarrassment before. I'd love to get yo ur thoughts on this revised version and please do point out any mistakes or typos that you spot.

_Finalized June 2008 _


	4. Prince of Mirkwood

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Whatever you can't find in Tolkien's books is obviously my creation or change.

Translations:

_n__ám__ari__ë_: farewell

_mellon n__í__n_: my friend

_diola lle_: thank you

Note that there are two Eldar languages, Quenya and Sindarin, and I use both indiscriminately.

**Chapter 4: Prince of Mirkwood**

"We will begin with the formal introduction of the guests to the Lady and the Lord of the Golden Wood," the herald announced, projecting his clear voice across the room. He seemed to enjoy his duty, for his pose was rather supercilious. Sariel bit back a smile born purely of nervousness. When she glanced around to gauge the others' reactions, she saw that they looked somewhat surprised, so she guessed that perhaps the formality was for her benefit, as a visitor representing the Elves of such a distant place.

"Lady Arwen Evenstar, Undómiel of Rivendell and daughter of Lord Elrond. The Lord and Lady bid their granddaughter welcome," the Elf said, drawing out every word with lavish care and attention. Or was it only Sariel's imagination and trepidation that made it seem that way?

"Welcome, too, is the betrothed of Lady Arwen, Aragorn son of Arathorn, Heir to the throne of Gondor, and once Chief of the Dúnedain. Their blessings are with you, Elessar, in this union of Elf and Man.

"From the Southern kingdoms, Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor.

"Of the great Dwarven mines, Gimli, son of Glóin.

"Guest of Lothlórien, Lady Sariel of the Elves of Lake Evendim; Nenuial, in the Elvish tongue. We have been informed that you bear an important message for the Lady and the Lord. They welcome you to the Golden Wood and bid you to find rest and peace after your long journey."

Sariel wondered how the Elf knew her name. Aragorn had probably spoken to their hosts as soon as she arrived, just as she had planned, and the Elves seemed perfectly willing to accept her as the messenger she claimed to be. She noted that Aragorn had many titles, but they were devoid of meaning to her. She had already recognized Aragorn's leadership and this was merely the confirmation of what she had suspected: he was not only noble, but royal. She did not expect less from a man who had won Arwen's love and life. However, Sariel thought it was strange that she had been announced before Legolas, for he was part of the group and they had all previously been in Lórien.

The herald muttered something indignantly to himself under his breath after introducing her, and Sariel's ears caught enough of it to realize that Legolas had forced him to go out of order. Curious as to why, she glanced expectantly at the Elf, wondering about his formal profession. As if determined to get his revenge on the person who had forced him into impropriety, the herald rushed through the greeting.

"Of the Elven kindred, we present Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, son and heir of Thranduil, King of that woodland realm of the Elves. The Lady and Lord look forward to many other meetings with you regarding the land of our distant kin, now cleansed of the shadow of evil.

"We bid you welcome."

Sariel felt her face drain of color and the floor tilted beneath her feet. _Prince of Mirkwood, son and heir of Thranduil._ Surely she misheard. Surely it was her fears that twisted the herald's words now. The phrase seemed to run over and over in her mind, but the words made no sense. How could it be? But no one else was surprised, and Gimli was looking at her with a grin, as if waiting for her happy surprise that her companion had been of exalted ancestry. Somehow, a little part of her remembered enough to stop her from doing anything rash. Her hands had curled into fists, nails biting deeply into the flesh of her palms, so Sariel hid them in the folds of her dress. She steeled herself to remain serene outwardly even as bile churned in her stomach.

Fortunately, no one seemed to have noticed her shock, or that her stance had become rigid, belying her calm expression. Gimli turned his attention from her to Galadriel, ecstatic that he could once more behold the beauty of the Lady again as he had thought he never would. Looking in Legolas's direction made Sariel feel ill, but she glanced around enough to see that all the others were similarly preoccupied with thoughts. Galadriel and Celeborn had murmuring soft greetings of their own to the travelers and it had turned to conversation, but the words fell meaninglessly on Sariel's ears. Galadriel stood to embrace her granddaughter fondly, Arwen truly like her name as she fairly shone with joy.

Sariel tried not to think about what she had just heard, knowing that she had to get through this meeting without giving any cause for suspicion in Galadriel's overly perceptive eyes. For a moment, their gazes met and Sariel nearly quailed under the unfathomable eyes of the Lady, staring at as if all her secrets were laid bare. Her heart seized painfully in her chest and it was only with supreme willpower that Sariel remained upright, when all she wanted to do was collapse. She was left breathless when the gaze moved to the others again and she was freed from that terrible fear. All Sariel could do was to lock everything away for a later time, striving for an inner serenity and dismally failing.

Perhaps it was even the shock of Legolas's heritage that saved her from Galadriel's examination, for during the entire time she was pinned under that clear blue gaze, Sariel did not think of Belderon once, save when his voice had echoed in her mind, whispering…_prince of Mirkwood_.

* * *

Later on, she could never remember exactly what had happened after the initial introductions when Legolas had been announced. All she could recall was the sensations she felt as Lady Galadriel's sagacious eyes gazed into her own, considering her. She must have delivered the message with the story she had created without any mistakes, but the entire meeting was a blur in her mind.

She _could_ remember a couple her companions asking her if she was all right, but their concern for her well being washed over her and only made her more frantic to keep up the entire charade. Once, the Lady of Light stared hard at Sariel until she could feel herself going pale and faint. Sariel imagined the black pupils of her eyes growing large, swallowing up the blue irises, and almost broke under the pressure. Hearing Legolas's voice as he answered a query from Aragorn made her head spin so badly that Sariel could not be sure that she was standing upright as she should be, because she felt as if she were swaying. For whatever reason, Galadriel left her alone after that.

Finally, the audience was over after what had seemed like an eternity. The companions left the chamber with Sariel, having been named the guests of honor at a special dinner for that night. Sariel pleaded a headache truthfully and left before any of them could so much as say a word. Everyone could tell that there was something bothering her, and it would not do for everyone's attention to be focused on her. She walked very fast for the first minute and only slowed down to avoid surprising the Elves in the hallways leading back to her room. When she finally reached that sanctuary, she took a moment to strip off the blue gown, leaving her dressed in the white undergarment, and then threw herself on her bed with no thought for anything else.

Silent sobs racked her body as the numbness faded and she finally lived all that she had merely seen and taken in automatically. She remembered the smooth, almost sinuous sound of the Elf's voice as his words rushed along, an unstoppable river, "Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, son and heir of Thranduil." She heard another voice spiraling out of her vivid memories, a harsh, almost clandestine whisper in her ear as the hourglass vial touched her neck, blood warm rather than cold. The moment that she had entered into a contract through the blood-oath, Belderon setting the terms and conditions of her freedom. _The son of Thranduil solely mine to assassinate, a life now yours, for your desire to be free…_

_Death shall be his fate_. A phrase that had no meaning for humans, mortals doomed to eventual death, but when it came to an Elf, it was a deadly promise to cut short an endless life.

"Why? _WHY?_" She did not have the energy to scream, but her throat was raw as if she had. Uncontrollable tears wet the pillow on her bed, anger slicing through her as she thought of how Belderon had deliberately kept secrets. She pummeled the pillow and bedding, shaking with fury, until she controlled herself with an iron will. No, neither of them could have known that Sariel would meet him long before the arranged location of Lothlórien. There was no one to blame but herself.

"Why?" It was a broken whisper in the end, yet a calm, reasonable inner voice answered. _For your mother and sister, _it said to her mercilessly. _They are the only people you know, the only ones in the world worth anything to you. If Legolas is the prince, then he must die as the prince._

She hated herself for knowing that every word was true.

* * *

The knocking on the door made Sariel's head pound and she blearily wondered what Belderon was in such a hurry for. Then she remembered—the blood-oath, Lórien, Legolas, all of it. She closed her eyes, trying to wish away the images, but the knocking became louder and more insistent.

"Lady? Lady Sariel, are you all right?"

Sariel dimly realized it must be her helper, the maid. How long had she slept? She still felt bone weary, but she managed to force herself out of bed until she stood in front of the door. She struggled to remember the name of the Elf.

"Eirien? I am fine, I just need to…I just need to rest some more." She was surprised at how hoarse her voice sounded though her throat did not hurt.

"It is almost evening now, are you sure you are all right? Will you not let me in so I can prepare something for your throat and help you with your hair? You have a meeting tonight with Lady Arwen, unless you wish to cancel. I can convey any message to her."

Sariel had totally forgotten about her compulsive promise to Arwen, made earlier that day. She cringed at the thought of what she in all likelihood looked like now, but if she told Eirien to tell Arwen that she was not coming, no doubt Arwen would be duly concerned and come to check on Sariel herself. One could hardly refuse to open the door to her without raising suspicion.

"Give me a moment and I will let you in, Eirien. We must hurry; I need to bathe as well." Sariel tried not to let her exhaustion show in her tone of voice. She hurriedly stripped everything off, the lovely white underdress to her gown now rumpled, and pulled on some spare clothing for modesty. Her hair was less complicated; she undid everything and let it down loose, hoping that Eirien would think she had done so last night, as she should have.

Eirien's eyes widened when the door was finally opened and she saw Sariel's red eyes and disheveled clothing, but made no comment beyond a few soothing remarks that she was not the first to have thought to overcome the distance to a crown. A sickly relief washed over Sariel when her fogged mind finally comprehended the maid's meaning—everyone thought that she was taken aback by Legolas's status and perhaps disappointed that what she had previously thought accessible was far out of the reach of a mere messenger, an unknown Elf from an unknown place.

The condescending pity of strangers should not have stung her pride, but it did, adding to Sariel's misery. If only they knew that Sariel was truly concerned about the prince of Mirkwood, but not so much because he was the prince and because she had harbored romantic interests as because it effortlessly brought together the identity of her new friend and her target. She was not heartbroken in quite the way that they believed she was.

In any case, Sariel let Eirien fuss over her and lead her to the bath, helping her comb out her long black tresses, which had become hopelessly tangled after Sariel's crying fit the previous night. When Sariel was done, Eirien helped her dry her hair and looked through her clothing to find an appropriate outfit. She finally held up a simple cream tunic and soft, suede grey leggings for Sariel's approval. Sariel accepted them without bothering to take a closer look and dressed efficiently, braiding her hair and coiling it around like a coronet. Even that image called up darker thoughts, and while Eirien took her clothes away for cleaning, Sariel slipped the hourglass necklace back around her neck, fighting back new tears.

When Eirien came back, she helped Sariel conceal the lingering traces of her storm of weeping, although she refrained from probing at the cause of Sariel's distress. Sariel was not hungry in the least, but ate to please Eirien, seeing her more as an equal than as a servant. After all, Sariel's true occupation was far less respectable than Eirien's. By the time the two of them were finally done, it was time to meet Arwen.

"Thank you," Sariel whispered to Eirien as she mentally prepared herself for the meeting. "For everything. I truly cannot thank you enough."

Eirien nodded, knowing Sariel also meant her silence and the awkward questions that had gone unasked. "Be strong, Sariel, and the next time you travel with strangers, remember that they may have reasons for keeping their background secret, whether their intentions are honorable or otherwise."

Clearly, Eirien blamed Legolas for Sariel's troubles, but her words cut deeper than she could have known. Sariel could not be angry at Legolas, for what she concealed was far worse. With that, Sariel stepped out of her rooms at last, looking at the closed door across from hers in the hallway and cursing herself yet again for being such a fool. She did not need to ferret out information about the prince of Mirkwood's sleeping quarters. Her mistake was in simply not knowing who he was, beyond the title, and now she knew him too well for comfort, knew him as a lively spirit, as a sweet melody carrying through the forest, even as a certain look in sapphire eyes shades lighter than her own.

Sariel walked to the fountain that Arwen had described to her, using a shortcut instead of following the directions she had been given. She was afraid of accidentally meeting with one of the four whom she had accompanied to Lórien. Although she recalled little of her past when she attempted to examine it, the memory of the fountain had not faded. It had been one of her favorite places to go as a child and now her feet took her in the right direction with little thought necessary.

When she arrived, the place was completely deserted except for the tiny, sleek silver fish in the pool. The fountain was a gorgeous piece of sculpted marble, white with silvery veins. Blue lotus flowers dotted the pool, vivid against the floating green leaves and providing hiding places for the fish. The water was turning dark as the sun set, the evanescent light reflected in many shades of fiery red and orange against the black of the water.

Sariel was sitting on the edge of the fountain and trailing her fingers in the water when Arwen approached almost soundlessly. To her surprise, another Elf was with her: Haldir. She uncomfortably shifted her eyes away from him, concentrating on Arwen as they walked toward her. Arwen took a seat on her right, and Haldir on her left. No doubt they wished to make her feel welcome; instead, she only felt caught.

"Did you want to talk to me about anything?" Sariel asked, voice slightly overloud in the quiet tranquility of the little area. She tried to cover the tension she felt with a smile, but it would not be alleviated while she sat between them, and it was hard to keep her serene exterior.

"Only to tell you of Lórien," Arwen said lightly, with a laugh meant to dispel Sariel's formality. "After all, you are our guest."

"It seemed as if you were not as familiar with Aragorn, Legolas, and the others as we had assumed," Haldir added.

Sariel had thought that they were going to ask questions about her or her life at Nenuial, but it seemed as if they merely wished for colloquial company. As Haldir and Arwen took turns talking, Sariel mostly listened and absorbed the information, happy that she had not even had to expend any effort. Not that much of it was actually useful for her purposes…and Sariel did not want to have to think of the task that lay ahead of her. The stories they told were fascinating all the same. She had not guessed that her companions had gone through so many adventures, or that the history of Middle-Earth had been so rich. There was so much that Belderon had kept from her, and now that Haldir seemed to have totally dismissed the thought that she might be the Sariel he used to know, she was more at ease.

Their conversation had whiled away more time than she had realized. Moonlight now reflected in white gleams on the surface of the black water and around the fountain, two streetlights had been lit, glowing ethereally. The talk was winding to a close, but to her surprise, Sariel found that she had enjoyed it very much despite her initial fears. It was easier than she had expected for her look at Haldir and talk to him as if he was a virtual stranger. He might have looked the same and they had been very close when they were young, but both of them had grown into different people. Haldir had become what she might have been, while Sariel—well, it was no surprise that Haldir could not recognize her after she had been so warped by Belderon's centuries of tutelage.

"_N__ám__ari__ë_, Sariel," Haldir said at last, interrupting her reverie. She replied in kind and watched as Haldir left as silently as he had come, lost in the shadows of the forest. Arwen lingered as if she wanted to say something or had something to do before she departed. Sariel looked at her expectantly.

"Before we part, Sariel, I have something to give you." Arwen reached down to retrieve a bundle of soft cloth. Sariel had noted it earlier but had assumed that it was some possession of Arwen's and had not asked about it. Now her eyes followed the motions of Arwen's white hand as the cloth was unwrapped, unexpectedly revealing a perfect white rose. Without hesitation, Arwen presented it to her. Sariel's hands reached out to take the lovely gift before she could stop herself, careful to avoid the thorns on the stem.

"This is a unique flower, grown in the Garden of Galadriel," Arwen told her. "Only a few white roses bloom each year from the briar rose strain called _an-uir_, forever. It serves as a symbol of the peace, love, and friendship among the Elves—quite appropriate for you, as you have come to visit from the kin that has been lost to distant places. True to its name, the rose blooms forever, suspended in the state at which it was cut from the briar. Like the Elven people, the rose will never wilt once it has reached its stage of maturity and despite the delicate appearance of the petals, they will not easily be damaged." She smiled and Sariel saw awe in her eyes. "It is magic, or what others would call magic, like they would call the Mirror of Galadriel magic, or the healing hands of my father."

"Arwen…I cannot accept such a gift. I am not worth of it," Sariel said, holding the rose out with both hands to the Elf before her, who looked every bit a queen, as she was soon to become. Arwen only cupped Sariel's hands in her own, reaffirming Sariel's protective clasp of the flower.

"I hope you will accept it, Sariel, and my friendship along with it. I give this to you as a token not only of my friendship, but so that you will always remember Lothlórien. May you always look upon its white petals in peace."

Helpless to do otherwise, Sariel held the rose. She brought it to her face, breathing in its fragrance. "_Diola lle_, Arwen. I am honored to call you a friend, and I will treasure this gift from you for always." She took the rose carefully, hands trembling to hold such a precious, rare thing.

"_N__ám__ari__ë__,_" Arwen said, and then, hesitantly, "…_mellon n__í__n_."

No one had ever called her that before. Sariel swallowed hard, unexpectedly touched by Arwen's gesture. Seeing the glint of tears in Sariel's dark blue eyes, Arwen touched her on the shoulder lightly before she stood and left, leaving Sariel sitting by the fountain. Sariel whispering a belated goodbye, staring down at the gift.

Why was Arwen being so kind to her? She looked up, her eyes following the lithe form of Aragorn's beloved as she walked away, grace in every line of her body. How could she trust a stranger so easily, extend her love and caring so selflessly, asking so little in return? It was not only for her physical beauty that she was called the Evenstar.

For long moments, Sariel watched the fish as they darted in an out of sight amongst the lily pads, barely visible except as silver streaks in the dark water. Was this what it was like to live in a community of others like herself? She had always imagined freedom, but now she realized that in all her visions, she had stood alone, except perhaps for her family. Now she realized that being alone could also mean loneliness. Sariel looked down at the halfway opened rose, one hand dipping in the cold water of the fountain to sprinkle a few dewdrops on the snowy petals, and idly wondered whether the dewdrops, too, would remain this way forever.

After a while, she knew she was only avoiding the inevitable, the things she feared and hated. She slowly went back to her chambers, putting the rose temporarily in a waterskin so that its stem was immersed in water. She was unsure whether it needed it at all or if some other magic would keep it fresh. With trembling hands, she tried to fight the compulsion that made her want to draw out the hourglass vial from where it rested, hidden beneath the neckline of her clothing. Finally succumbing to the pressure, her hands tightened around the glass and metal of her necklace for a moment. Belderon had given her a mirror for his communications; the frame shone unnaturally, as if it were glowing.

Clearly, he wanted to contact her. Resigned, Sariel gripped the handle, raising it to her face and trying to ignore how she felt something malevolent seep into her through her fingers. Instead of her own appearance in the mirror's reflection, there was only a blur. Slowly, it sharpened into a slightly unclear image of Belderon's face.

"When are you going to make your move, my pet, my nightingale? Galadriel will only become more suspicious of you as time passes. Each day you delay, you risk failure."

"I must learn more about the Elf that you bound me by blood-oath to kill. You did not give me his name and I do not yet know where he can be found." She was surprised by how steady her voice sounded in her lies.

"Just remember, each day you wait is another day your mother and sister spend in darkness. I have one more instruction, and this you must obey. When you do kill him, I want you to use the stiletto," Belderon said, his gaze boring into her.

"I will, Master." Sariel's heart sank; she had wanted to slip a painless, quick poison into her target's food. She did not want to think of his name, or to think that he was a friend. A friend who had somehow given her Arwen's friendship as well, for she was sure that was one of the reasons behind Arwen's kindness toward her.

"Immobilize him and then whisper to him that he will finally pay for Faldelin's death. Tell him that Rhiannon had received only what she deserved, for spurning Faldelin's love. Tell him that I, Belderon, will personally destroy the Elves because of his royal family's sins." Belderon's voice shook faintly with anger. It was the first time Sariel had ever seen him lose even a little of his composure. "Thranduil shall feel my pain as _his_ son and heir is killed."

"I shall, Master," Sariel said meekly, mind heart racing with the implications. She did not have the slightest idea what Belderon was talking about, but knew that asking him now would provoke him even more. She was far away from him, but the distance had not made her altogether foolish.

"I want you to make him bleed to death. You will stab him in the heart with the silver stiletto and let him see you, knowing that Belderon sent you. I want the look of horror in his eyes, _I want him to suffer_," he hissed. "It will be slow and painful. Ensure it."

Sariel's heart stopped for a moment at the words. Why? Why was it necessary to make this special? Belderon wanted revenge, it was clear, but it was so much more dangerous to do as he wanted…she could be caught. Everyone would know that it was murder, and to stand over her target while he writhed in pain and gasped his last breath… The thought made her so sick to the stomach that she instinctively turned away from the mirror, knowing that to reveal her feelings to Belderon would be a mistake. She was supposed to be dispassionate.

But Belderon was the one breaking all the rules first. This was not a dispassionate killing, but an act of deliberate cruelty. Bile rose to her throat, but Belderon continued mercilessly, forcing her to look in the mirror once more. He stared back, pale eyes petrifying.

"In return…" Belderon paused, a brief smirk crossing his face. "You know what I shall give to you in return."

"Can I see them, just for a few moments…?" Sariel asked hopelessly.

"No." His voice was steely, under control again. "Do as I told you. Remember I hold everything dear to you in my hands."

"Yes, I will." Her voice threatened to waver and she ruthlessly quelled it. A small part of her denied it for the first time, as she thought of Arwen. There was one thing dear to her that could never be touched by Belderon, could never be tainted. Sariel thought of Arwen's brightness, the Elven-light of her eyes, the strength that was never quite overshadowed by her beauty.

"You are an assassin, Sariel," Belderon said, ruthlessly breaking the image Sariel had created in her mind. "Never forget that. I will let your family go only if you complete this_ exactly_ as I wish it. The rewards will be great."

Belderon's hooded face faded from view, and Sariel was left staring at her own reflection. Even in the light, her face was pale and she was trembling ever so slightly. For revenge—that was why Belderon wanted her to kill Legolas. It was something to do with both Thranduil and Legolas. Something about Faldelin and Rhiannon, something about love gone wrong between them, though those names were unfamiliar to Sariel. What had Belderon meant when he said that he wanted to destroy the Elves? Was he altering the contract, intending to send Sariel out on more missions?

Sariel felt as if a clammy hand had touched her on her cheek. She knew the depths of Belderon's power, and his determination. If someone could kill all the Elves, Belderon could. Would he? What for? Unbidden memories rose in her mind, face after face, those that she had killed already. In her heart, she had always known that Belderon wanted more. That was why she had been so surprised when he had told her that this would be her last assassination. His hatred, his evil, had no limits, and yet… He was an Elf. What had made him into nothing but vengeance?

She rose and headed toward the library to find the answers.

* * *

Sariel rubbed at her eyes. She yawned, fatigue making her shoulders ache, and finally closed the thick book that she had just finished reading. It was such a tale that she could hardly believe it was history. Arwen and Haldir had told her some of it, but she had discovered so much more. Mithrandir, Aragorn, Frodo, and the others in the Fellowship had accomplished a task that she could not even begin to imagine. They had survived through so much together and had so much more in their futures. Aragorn had a kingdom to rebuild and his people to lead. Sariel now understood why he had been loath to letting anyone join their band, even if it was only for a short time and for convenience's sake. The Fellowship had been made and broken during the War of the Ring, but it was now in part reunified, and Sariel was no part of it.

Of all the information, however, the most important part to Sariel was the account of their one and only other visit to Lothlórien, when they had believed Gandalf to be lost. She read about the mirror of Galadriel and Nenya, one of the three Elven-rings, and understood why Belderon still feared Galadriel, why he warned Sariel away from her. She knew of Legolas' skills as a warrior and knew that he would not be like her other unsuspecting targets. She had fallen in with a group of heroes, their names an integral part of the ongoing story of the world.

So that was what all the titles meant. Why Aragorn was Strider and Elessar and how the unlikeliest and most unusual friendship between Legolas and Gimli had been made, though as Dwarf and Elf they were natural enemies. She read about Sauron's evil, and Belderon almost paled in comparison.

Almost, because Sauron was of the past, but Belderon was a terrifying here and now. Almost, because Sauron was beyond her comprehension, an adversary for heroes indeed, and Sariel was only Belderon's pet, only a prisoner who had lived for many centuries without living at all. Sariel had nothing to do with Sauron. Reading of him chilled her, but the thought of Belderon was so much more real to her. Belderon was what she knew. Belderon and her family. Just as she found it difficult to feel any kinship with the other Elves she had met, Sariel also found it difficult to see how she was in any way connected to the magnificent history of Middle-Earth that she had read. While Sauron's shadow had spread and wars had raged, she had passed isolated days in Belderon's control. While thousands had died, she had only been intent on killing the few that Belderon had sent her out for.

Middle-Earth was another world, not her own.

The realization was a bitter one to swallow, but Sariel pushed aside her disappointment. Unfortunately, she had found nothing when she tried to research the name Faldelin and the records she read on the royal family of Mirkwood were fragments at best. She was unsure of how much exchange existed between Lothlórien and Mirkwood, but she also guessed that the darker histories were not open for all Elves to read. The histories of Morgoth were locked away and it was only her skill with lockpicks that had allowed her access to them.

Most of what she had found contained little evidence of violence or treachery, but she could not believe that the Elves had been peaceful for so many years, if only because of her own experience. Would her story ever be made known? It increased her bitterness, to think that the Elves would not even believe her. As far as she could tell, no Elf had ever turned on his or her own race as completely as she had done. None had been an assassin of their own people.

There were ballads and songs that spoke of war, but even those were mostly glorified things. Sariel knew death and killing better than anything else, and it angered her that the Elves seemed to deliberately remain blind. An Elven child, she was sure, could not wander into the library and find a book about Túrin Turambar and Nienor Níniel, the brother and sister who had married each other without knowing they were kin and who had brought ruin on several Elven strongholds. It was with a horrified fascination that she read of how the orcs had developed from tortured Elves. She could not help but think of her mother and sister. She would do anything to spare Lorianiel and Lessena from that fate, even if she had to die herself to do it.

If Belderon wanted revenge, the story behind it could not have been peaceful, and it was almost predictable that she could not find it in the documents of Lothlórien. Though Elves loved lore and learning, they covered up far too much about their own race. She could not search through the immense library by herself, but dared not to risk asking someone for help. She stared at the thick volume on her lap.

"You must kill him," she reminded herself, but her voice lacked confidence. For the first time, she was not sure if she could. "You must. You will."

There were six simple rules that Belderon had taught her, making her repeat them from the very first day that her father was killed and Lorianiel, Lessena, and herself were taken to Lake Evendim. Show no emotion. Feel nothing. Infiltrate. Let no one close to you. Be ruthless and use everything for your purpose. And, last of all, never forget that you are an assassin.

"Can I? Can I kill someone I…" she couldn't finish the sentence because she did not understand it herself. She had forgotten what it meant to be an assassin, letting herself believe that she could truly befriend her companions. She had told herself that they would be unimportant to her assignation. In doing so, she had befriended her target as well as his likely guards.

Somehow it seemed as if she did not admit it, it would not be true. Yet Sariel faced her weakness, knowing that incertitude would be dangerous for her. Why had she forgotten the rules? Why had she broken them, willfully making her already miserable life even worse? She could not believe that she had slipped so badly, forgetting that everything had to be devoted to the single purpose of killing.

She had been a fool. _I brought this on myself_, she reflected bitterly. _I thought it was all right, that there were no way friendships with any of them could harm me. After all, Belderon had told me that the target was already in Lothlórien. I did not stop to think that he might be journeying there yet, even as I did. I did not think that Legolas could possibly be the one I was bound by blood-oath to kill, the one targeted killing that determines the fate of my mother, sister, and myself. _

_I let myself be something other than an assassin. _

And now reality was choking her. Belderon would expect her to move soon, but all Sariel could think of was a name, a face, a friend. Legolas. Kind-hearted from what she had observed, admirable from all accounts, an Elf who sang so sweetly that she could listen to his voice while putting herself to death. She did not want to think of what she felt, or might feel, for Legolas. She did not want to admit that she might not be able to bring herself to do the one thing that needed to be done. He was more than the target of her mission. It was not only her freedom and her life that was at stake here; even if Sariel was willing to sacrifice herself, she could not give up on her family. She would simply have to betray him.

He was the key to every goal she had ever made, but it was his death that she needed most.

* * *

Back in her own rooms, Sariel let herself drop into a chair at the table, looking at the white rose incongruously held in a waterskin. She removed it, holding its wet stem and admiring it once again. It was very beautiful in the aesthetic sense, but Sariel treasured it more because a friend had given it to her. She had gained something in breaking one of the six rules, Sariel thought—but what was it worth? Was it worth the price she would pay?

Dropping it carelessly to the table, Sariel knew that she had to stop thinking that way. Questioning would only make her uncertain, because she had no answers. She drew out her stiletto, its thin blade already gleaming brightly and began to whet it. She stroked the blade from haft to tip across the fine ceramic stone on one side, and then the other. The six rules ran through her head; Belderon had once made her recite them aloud as she took care of her weapons. No hint of blood blemished the weapon, and yet when Sariel looked at it, it never seemed bright enough.

For a few days, she had allowed herself to pretend that she had everything: freedom, friendship, even peace. She had believed that her deceptive life would not be overshadowed by her real identity, somehow thinking that she could accept friendship and have its innocent memory even after she killed. _I was content_, Sariel thought. _To be fond of others, without even expecting that affection to be returned—I was content. I let my eyes rest on his beauty, my mind spinning dreams, and my heart was moved, however little, or however much. I was content, even when Haldir stood so close I could slip up and embrace him, my long lost friend. I was all right without Gimli's jokes or Arwen's rose; I was sure of myself and my purpose. I dreamed only harmless dreams and forgot that my nature was full of harm. Was it too much? _Even these simple pleasures was taken from her, because instead of just plain Legolas, he was Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, and the son of Thranduil, the one she had vowed to kill.

Her regular motions faltered, and Sariel stopped, knowing that the stiletto was more than sharp enough for its purpose. It was a stabbing weapon, not a cutting one, the favored weapon of assassins. With a little water and cloth, she wiped the blade, and then, as if unable to stop herself, turned it on its edge.

Her left hand came up and her thumb stroked it gently, skin parting without effort. She stared at the red that was just barely stained the edge of the stiletto. Realizing what she was doing, Sariel dropped the stiletto, her hands suddenly numb. The fine scarlet line running down her finger seeped blood, running down her hand to the inside of her wrist.

The pain, when she registered it, was abrupt, but she had a high tolerance and easily blocked it out. Seeing that the blood was about to drip onto white petals of the rose, Sariel did the illogical. She reached for the rose with her other hand to remove it, instead of simply taking her hand away. Her motions seemed slow to her, impossibly so. The mystery of it distracted her, Sariel's eyes following her hand as it seemed to take forever to lift the flower. Having rescued it, she took care of the self-inflicted cut on her left hand, pressing a clean cloth to it.

She thought that she had avoided the rose—the blood had seemed to flow slowly, as slowly as her movements. Yet there was a dark red blot on one of the petals when Sariel looked at the rose again, examining its depths. It was already sliding down into the heart of the flower, as if the blood acted differently than the dewdrops still clinging to the petals. She stared at it, wondering if she could remove it, perhaps by washing it with water.

A bitter sound of disbelief came first from her, a small exhalation of breath, before the laughter escaped. Sariel shook her head in denial of everything. It was too much. All the events of the day had been like this stubborn little drop of blood, staining her perfect friendship, destroying her illusions. It was supposed to have been the culmination of everything she had worked for. She was supposed to have been free, but the feelings that had emerged in her heart acted like chains, enslaving her spirit more than Belderon had ever done. Memories and imagination combined, confusing her until she thought she was a little mad, sitting here in the middle of the night, holding a silver blade in one hand and a rose in the other. She put both on the table, tossing them a little away from her, and crossed her arms, putting her head on them.

The air smelled coppery, the scent of blood assaulting her. It had only been a minor cut, but she had made a mess. She closed her eyes to stop the useless tears, fighting to keep her sanity, to remember that she had a purpose. There was something she wanted from this world. She clung to the knowledge, but could not fight off the truth. She no longer knew for certain what that thing she wanted was.

She was composed when she finally lifted her head and opened her eyes. Her gaze fell on the rose and she blinked, certain that her eyes were deceiving her. Only a drop or two of blood at most had fallen on the snow-white petals, yet now the rose before her looked as if it had never been another color, let alone one as pure as white. It lay where she had dropped it. It was the same rose, yet it could not be.

Sariel snatched it up, holding it as carefully as if she were offering the flower to someone. Pain gripped her heart as she looked at it. Was this the only thing she could offer to the world—nothing but the perversion of ideals, a mockery of this symbol of peace, love, and purity of intent? It had been changed by the fluid of life, and it was fitting, because she held her mother and sister's lives, her own life, more important than other lives, let alone friendship. She would betray Arwen if it was required. She would watch Legolas die in pain, knowing she was the cause.

She turned the rose and from every angle it looked the same, the delicate petals dark as if they had always been that way. The rose was still perfect, but the color was a dark red, as if Sariel's blood had transformed its very nature.

A blood-red rose for Legolas.

* * *

A/N: As usual, I would love to hear your feedback, so please spare a moment to review. Thanks!

_Finalized June 2008_


	5. When Love Lies

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended; written with all due respect to J.R.R. Tolkien.

Translations:

_merengail_: combination of 'joyous' and 'light (bright)'

**

* * *

Chapter 5: When Love Lies**

* * *

Arwen found Sariel the next morning when she did not appear during breakfast. Overnight, Sariel seemed to have become an entirely different person. The Elf that Arwen and the others had become familiar with and had considered a friend was gone, as polite and distant as a stranger. Sariel retreated inside herself, miserable, but on the outside she was eerily tranquil. Everything around her had a dreamlike quality to it, reinforced by the numbness that had seized hold over her body. She dully responded to Arwen's chatter, unable to muster up even a false interest.

"Sariel, what is the matter with you?" Arwen had finally stopped trying, opting for a more direct approach instead. She touched Sariel on the shoulder when there was no response, only to see Sariel flinch. Stunned, Arwen let her hand drop back down to her side. Sariel tensed instinctively, a trained response, but forced herself to deliberately relax.

"Did you hear _anything _I told you?" Arwen asked. She stared at her friend, but Sariel's gaze dropped to her hands, clasped together in front of her.

"Forgive me, Arwen," Sariel responded, but offered no explanation for her behavior. She hoped that she merely sounded as if she had been lost in thought. "What did you say?"

"I told you that this morning, Rumil, Haldir's brother, had come back from scouting with some unpleasant news. He reported that a band of trolls have been found some ways outside the borders of Lórien, to the south. There is a small human settlement in the area and Rumil said that thus far the trolls have killed one human child who was lost in the woods. The family is understandably devastated, but thankfully they have recovered the body and it has not been further desecrated," Arwen told her.

Sariel could not bring herself to offer false compassion, but she could offer vengeance with an honest heart. "What will the Elves do in response?"

"We have pledged our aid," Arwen said. "There are three or four trolls in total. Haldir, your companions, and others are riding in search of the trolls this afternoon, as soon as their preparations are complete."

Sariel felt a reckless spark of interest. "Can others ride with them?"

"Others can if they desire it, but not many would offer to risk their lives for something like this. The humans have our sympathy, but those of Lórien keep themselves apart more so than the Elves of Imladris, that which the humans have named Rivendell. I fear that many will be wounded in the fighting, but hope that our skill will prevent any further deaths."

"I will go," Sariel said to Arwen bluntly. Her heart sped in her chest, a small part of her telling her that this was wrong. It had nothing to do with her mission. But the larger part of her leapt at the opportunity.

"Sariel!" Arwen exclaimed, too surprised to say anything for a moment. "You cannot go! This is no pleasure ride through the woods. There is little glory to be found fighting trolls."

"You think that I do not understand that?" Sariel countered. "Why should I be left behind—because I am _female_?"

"Nonsense!" Arwen said sharply, affronted. "There are female as well as male Elves among the fighters, as there are among the healers, the scholars, and all else. We do not follow the customs of Men here. It is not as if you must prove that we can be well trained in arms."

"Yet we are excluded from the serious fighting, do you mean that, Arwen?" Sariel knew that she was provoking a fight, but she could not seem to help herself. All her anger and frustration needed and outlet and it was unfortunate for Arwen that she was a convenient target.

"Of course not!" the daughter of Elrond exploded. "Many of us—" She caught herself and looked with narrowed eyes at Sariel. "Why do you have your mind set on this, Sariel?"

"Arwen, perhaps the others did not have the opportunity to tell you, but I am more than capable of taking care of myself. I am neither untrained nor overestimating my abilities. Indeed, I have spent much of my life with weapons," Sariel said with a laugh.

Arwen still narrowed her eyes. "You have not answered my question."

"That is because it is not a necessary one to ask," Sariel countered. She held out her hand and Arwen took it without thinking. After a moment, Sariel saw understanding in her expression. There was a scar on her palm from Belderon's ritual of the blood-oath and her hand was callused, not what would be typically expected of a lady's.

"But—" Arwen began.

Sariel interrupted with a small lie. "I want to help, and I know I can. Will you stop me?"

Arwen shook her head. "You will have to prove yourself to the others, and they will not be impressed with a handshake," she warned. Her lips curved in a small smile. "Although a few might be very glad to have the chance to hold your hand," she added.

Sariel's mind was already far away. "Do you know who is commanding the expedition?"

"Haldir is, I believe. I am sure he will never consent to your company, however. If you are wounded—or worse yet, killed—on some foolhardy adventure in Lórien, what will we say to your family? You are a guest!" Arwen seemed relieved when she remembered that the others had good reason to prevent Sariel from fighting even if her skills were up to par.

Sariel did not reply. She had nothing more to lose—just as well if she were killed, no one would mourn the death of an assassin. Belderon's careful planning _would _be ruined, however. _You should have chosen Lessena when you had the chance to_, she thought to herself defiantly. Belderon had looked to her, the passionate one, the quicker learner, with her fire and her temper. He had chosen _Sariel _instead of her sister, the truly lady-like Lessena. Lessena would have killed herself before becoming an assassin. Sariel loved life more.

"I will ask him, and he will agree," Sariel said, rising.

Arwen was far from convinced, but she also stood. "I suppose it would do no harm to simply ask. Would you care to join us for archery practice? The others will be there as well and you can put forth your request."

* * *

Sariel contemplated the archery target and her opponents. Somehow, Arwen had maneuvered her into volunteering for one of the spontaneous archery competitions that were often arranged during practice. Actually, it was more like _Arwen_ had volunteered for Sariel, now that she came to think of it. She smiled a bit wryly as she tested the strength and direction of the wind. Thirteen others, all Elves, were also participating. The bow felt familiar and yet strangely awkward in her hand although it was her own. She did not care if she won or lost, but Haldir _had _agreed to consider her request to join the troll hunters if she in fact won.

To win, however, Sariel had to beat Legolas as well as others equally skilled. When Arwen had heard of Haldir's promise, she had gone and cajoled Legolas into the game, most likely so that Sariel would have an even more difficult time trying to win. _He's one of the undisputed champions of archery. Supposedly._ She knew that at a certain level of skill, everything eventually came down to luck. No one could remain undefeated forever.

Sariel actually smiled at the thought, knowing exactly what the others saw when they stared at her now. She looked like an obstinate girl who could not handle a bow and arrow and would likely shoot herself in the foot if she tried. Well, it was up to her to show them. Belderon would not like to know that his pet assassin could be beat by Elves of Lórien. That was the whole point of being an assassin in the first place—it would be ridiculous if she were less skilled than her victims.

"You will each receive three arrows. When the whistle first sounds, you will shoot, and by the second whistle, you must have finished with all three. I will give a count of three before we start," Haldir said, raising his voice so that all the archers could hear clearly. There were perhaps twenty or so Elves simply watching.

"One…two…three!" Haldir gave the piercing whistle that the Elven scouts used as a signal for danger.

Immediately, the archers aimed, fired, and did so twice more, their movements like graceful blurs, almost in concert. Dull, satisfying _thwacks _was heard from the targets and the sound of bowstrings and arrows cutting through the air. Haldir gave the second whistle in what seemed like mere seconds.

All the Elves had exceptional shots, but it was still clear who would make it to the second round. Legolas, Sariel, and four others waited as their arrows were retrieved. Sariel heard murmurs among the surprised Elves who had thought the worst of her, but they were polite. She would not have overheard if she had not been listening—and if she had not had special training to enhance her already incredible Elven hearing.

The new targets were about fifteen feet farther away, but they were still not as far as the targets that Belderon routinely tested Sariel with. She tensed as the earsplitting whistle blew again, hand whipping behind her to draw an arrow, aim, and release all in the space of a heartbeat. Archery had become as natural to her as breathing and she reveled in this display of skill. She almost wished she could be a spectator, enjoying and taking pride in the achievement of the other Elves. After centuries of practice, Sariel could appreciate archery as an art. The whistle blew again, the allotted time cut shorter this round, so that most Elves had just released their third and final arrow. Clearly, the competition was designed to reflect the fact that there was no time for hesitation in battle.

All three of her arrows were clustered tightly together in the center of the target and embedded so deep that the Elf retrieving the arrows had difficulty pulling them out so that they could be reused. Legolas's arrows were in the same condition when Sariel looked to her right, but one of his arrows had split the other in half. It took extreme precision, a hair width's accuracy to accomplish that, because it meant that the second arrow had to have struck the first arrow exactly. Sariel was impressed and a little envious. If it were the final round, he would have easily won. She gritted her teeth, determined to best him.

_No one here can beat an assassin! _she told herself. Although she had meant to bolster her determination, the reminder that her advantage was due to her identity as an assassin took away her uncomplicated enjoyment of the competition. She looked over at Legolas and he was focused, steady. He sensed her look and caught her gaze, smiling briefly at her. Sariel could have sworn his eyes glittered with slight, so-faint challenge in their cornflower blue depths.

_That is it—he is going to lose. _Sariel would never forgive herself if she could not beat him. Anticipation hummed through her limbs, her stomach tightening a little as she wondered how Legolas would look at her if she won. Would he still smile?

"Proceeding to the final round will be…Legolas, Merengail, and Sariel. The rules for this round are slightly different. The target is moved thirty feet further and each archer will be given six arrows," Haldir announced. The watching Elves were trying to predict the outcome of the contest, whispering their guesses to each other.

Sariel's hands were slightly trembling with expectation as she waited for the whistle. She took a deep breath and steadied herself, feeling the calm and concentration flow through her body, relaxing muscles into limber confidence. I _have_ to win, she said to herself. _For… _The usual names came to mind: Lorianiel, Lessena, Belderon, but she realized that it was not true. _For myself. I want to win only for myself and no one else. Not to save anyone, not because it's necessary, but because I can._

She glanced at the other two. Both seemed composed, confident, and she chided herself for being nervous. They probably participated in impromptu competitions like this one all the time. She heard the whistle and the time seemed to fly as fast as her arrows cutting through the air. It seemed like an eternity before the second whistle, before she let herself relax. She looked to see how the others had done.

Merengail had five arrows in the direct center of the bull's-eye, but the sixth was about an inch away from the rest. Legolas had all the arrows in the center, and one of the arrows had split another. Impressive, again, at this distance. Almost impossible to duplicate, let alone best…but at least she had lost only to an absolute master. Still, her heart sank for a moment and she was afraid to look at her own target.

Sariel finally turned to her own target when she heard polite clapping begin after the appreciative silence that had initially been the crowd's response. From this distance, it was almost as if there were only three arrows…two of her arrows had split another, forming a dense forest of wood splinters and feathers in the center of the target. The third pair were so closely nestled together that they seemed like one. She could hardly believe that she had done so well, could hardly believe that it was even possible.

She suddenly realized that the crowd was not clapping for Legolas's results, but hers as well. Sariel smiled, feeling the fierce surge of competition ease in face of her self-achievement. There was an Elven-light in her eyes and her cheeks were somewhat flushed with victory. It was with this joy still in her expression that she turned to Legolas, touching her hand briefly to her heart to indicate that she respected his efforts. She had never looked that way during the journey to Lórien, so open and passionate, bright with vitality.

Legolas stared at her, unresponsive, and Sariel lost her smile for a brief moment before she turned to Haldir and smiled again, brighter than ever but a little less sincerely.

"Lady Sariel claims first place, with Legolas in second and Merengail as third," Haldir said to the hushed audience. "Congratulations to our winners and well done, all our fine competitors. There was no prize set for this contest, but Sariel can compete in the winners' championship three days hence. We hope she joins us then."

Haldir took Sariel's hand and she watched in puzzlement as he raised it, finally understanding as she remembered Arwen's words from earlier, when she had not been paying attention. She felt the soft brush of his lips against her skin as he dropped a light kiss on the back of her hand. "Congratulations," he said to her, eyes warm. There were a few whispers at his gallant actions, reminding them both that they had an audience.

For a moment Sariel allowed herself to remember the past. Once upon a time, she had longed for Vanidar to look so at her, when the three of them had run wild together. Had Haldir ever looked at her with these eyes, appreciative of her beauty? It was not true interest, but it was respect—for both her skill, and her appearance.

She did not look at Legolas again before she walked over to Arwen, who hugged her and then stepped back to look at her, an inscrutable expression on her face. Sariel began walking away and Arwen followed without protest. It was irritating that all the Elves were doing their best to be polite to her and yet talk about her at the same time, but it was not the only reason she was eager to leave.

"How did you do that?" Arwen asked, admiration in her voice.

"I told you that I am not unskilled," Sariel responded steadily. Arwen laughed.

"I believe you now, never fear. Sariel, few have ever beaten Legolas in archery before, for at least as long as I can remember. You have seen how precise he is—it is not luck, but the combination of trained skill and natural talent. Perhaps in his home at Mirkwood there are better archers, but never in Rivendell or Lórien. If I had not seen what you just did with my own eyes, I would not have believed it!"

"Well, Legolas did as well as I, if you have not noticed," Sariel answered tartly. "I knew beforehand that he would be impressive, as everyone kept on telling me over and over again." She tried not to remember how he had not even spoken to her after the competition. At least she had avoided the false praise she would have been likely to hear once he stopped thinking of his injured pride. "At least Haldir will have to let me go."

"He cannot," Arwen still protested. "Haldir most certainly will not. Sariel, truly, why must you go?"

"Because everyone is trying to stop me," Sariel answered, but regretted her harsh tone when she saw Arwen's expression. Her friend was only concerned for her safety. "Arwen, it is not as bad as you imagine it to be. I can help."

"I wish you would consider your companions' feelings," Arwen said helplessly at last. "They would worry for you as well."

"Haldir promised he would consider it fairly if I won," Sariel said coldly. There was at least one of her companions who would not worry for her. Was there something wrong with someone else being the winner for once? "He will not be foresworn, and I have won."

* * *

"Give her a chance to prove herself, Haldir!" Gimli was saying heatedly, at odds with the marchwarden of Lórien. "You owe Sariel at least that much before declaring she cannot go. This morning she surpassed even Legolas in archery, a feat that few can boast of. Let her come with us—she is a brave little warrior, I know it!"

Sariel was about to argue that she was _not _some child like Gimli was making her out to be, and that in fact she was bigger than Gimli, but thought better of it. After all, the Dwarf was helping her and he was on her side.

"You will not accompany us, and that is final, Lady Sariel," Haldir said sternly. "As for you, Master Dwarf, one wonders why you are so concerned for her and yet endeavor to kill her."

"Kill her?" shouted Gimli. "I would do nothing to harm her and you know it!"

"Then offer not your opinion in this. Sariel is a guest of Lothlórien and should not be made to fight our battles. I cannot ensure her safety. This is between Sariel and myself," Haldir said. Gimli huffed at the dismissal and stalked off angrily. Sariel would have to present her own case now.

"Haldir, you promised—"

"I have considered it and that is my final answer," he said, cutting her off.

"Listen to me! If I am a guest, why will you not at least have the courtesy to let me do as I please and—"

"By all means, if you wish to kill yourself, there are far easier ways than seeking out a troll. Your foolishness would then hurt only your own honor and not the reputation of the Golden Wood. Now, if you will please excuse me, I must prepare for my Elves for battle." Haldir cut her off for the second time, turning and walking off.

Sariel fought the urge to scream with frustration. Haldir was behaving so differently than he had at the end of the competition. She had believed that he respected her skill. Were his pretty words of praise only meant for a lady after all? She could fight as well as he could, but she could hardly tell him that, or explain that she had been trained as an assassin and thus could overcome him if she wished. With or without their consent, she would go.

There it was again. She was an assassin. For a moment, she was glad of her argument with Haldir, glad that he had provoked her and that she was so irate. She could not think of what she soon must do when she was this distracted and angry.

Sariel changed out of her dusty clothes in her own rooms, putting on the comfortable, boyish tunic and pants that she had worn traveling here. She braided her thick black hair and pulled up the hood, completing the disguise. Unless someone was staring straight at her face, no one would know what she looked like, and she would make sure that all anyone ever got was an odd angle.

Caution made her hesitate and she wrote a hasty note explaining that she was out for a ride, covering herself in case Arwen came looking for her. She crept to the stables and slipped into Myste's stall without anyone noticing. _They are overconfident_, she thought as she did so. _It is foolish of them to not to post a guard on the stables. _

"Myste, we go to battle. Do not be fearful, I will let no harm come to you," she said to her horse in soft Elvish, knowing that the animal would sense the general meaning. She patted the filly's neck, letting her fingers trace the glossy white arch.

Myste snorted her contempt of the idea that she would be fearful and moved towards Sariel in the limited space of her stall. Sariel laughed and let her out. She saddled the filly and then mounted in one fluid motion, throwing herself smoothly on. As usual, she did not use a bit, reins, or even stirrups. The partners silently left the stable, heading in the general direction toward where the trolls were last seen.

It was easy to follow the trolls once she entered the immediate area of their activities; Sariel did not even need her assassin's training. The trolls had left a wide trail of destruction and had made no attempt to hide the signs of their passing. After a while, Sariel also saw the outline of a horse's hoof in the mud. The Elves had already passed this way. She bit her lip, knowing she had to catch up.

As she came nearer to her target, Sariel urged Myste into a gallop. Above the sound of pounding hooves, she could faintly hear the sounds of battle. Not long after, she burst into the scene and saw the mounted Elves fighting. Her eyes skimmed over the action. No, not three or four trolls, but five—_five_, and some orcs as well. Sariel did not spend much time wondering why the trolls had formed a band, and why orcs were with them. Despite so many Elves, they needed more. They had formed a band of Elves intending to take down three trolls, and now they did not have enough.

She drew and arrow and fired even as she neared the fighting, hitting an orc in the arm. It was harder to shoot from the back of a moving horse, but the range was closer. She loosed arrows in quick succession, thinking of how the competition differed still so much from the action during the heat of battle.

She felt utterly disgusted when she saw the trolls up close. Each was colossal, about twice as tall as the mounted elves, and their tough hide was a hideous splotchy gray-brown color. They were bent over as if their backs could not support their massive heads, their shoulders were rounded. Their arms hung to their feet, swaying and covered with coarse black hair. Those massive hands were busy wreaking damage. A sound terrible and shrill split through the air—a horse's scream. Sariel looked at the other troll closest to her to see that his hand had wrapped around the horse's foreleg and snapped it. Even now, he was doing the same to the other leg as the horse's rider slid off. Sariel's heart ached for the horse; she had not felt much at the news of the human child's death, but she knew that with two broken forelegs, the horse would have to be killed. The sooner the better, to put it out of its agony.

Myste had been her own friend and companion for so long. Now Sariel crouched low on her back as they burst into the middle of the fighting. She joined a group of Elves harassing an enraged troll, a welcome new addition. The troll was so large that the wounds the elves inflicted seemed like mere cuts despite their skill. She drew her sword, feeling reckless and glad of it.

As the troll turned, bellowing in agony when an Elf plunged his sword into its leg, Sariel stood up in the saddle, and then in one gigantic leap landed on the back of the troll. It was not as difficult as she thought it might be because some of the other Elves had thrown a weighted net over the troll's hands, further pulling it down.

She stabbed the troll through the shoulder with her slender Elven sword, using all her weight, and then holding onto the handle as the troll tried to shake her off. Myste, now riderless, reared on her hind legs as she had been trained to do and struck with her churning front legs and sharp hooves.

Other Elves shot arrow after arrow into the troll, but the arrows did not do much damage. She saw Gimli hack at the troll with his axe, almost as if the troll was a tree. The troll stopped moving for a second, and Sariel managed to release her right arm guard so that one of her long silver-white Elven knives, a little shorter than half the length of her sword, dropped into her hand hilt first.

She summoned all her strength and managed to get into position, left hand still gripping the hilt of the sword, most of her body on the shoulder of the troll. Something came over her then, so that she felt utterly uncontrolled, uncaring. She was a deadly creature in her wild fury and she did not care if she showed it. She raised her right hand and slammed the knife into the troll's bulbous right eye.

At first, even this did not stop the monstrous creature, who bellowed an earthshaking sound of pain commingled with anger. One of its flailing fists caught Myste's white side and Sariel almost cried with rage. The filly bounded away without apparent serious injury, and relief washed over her. Sariel leaned all her weight into it, struggling to drive the knife into the eye up to the hilt. She felt herself slipping and removed the knife with difficulty, plunging it into the eye again. Slick, stinging, hot blood gushed out and poured down her arm. Two arrows hit the troll's throat, from Legolas. Another Elf repeatedly stabbed the troll's side and she recognized him from the competition: Merengail.

The troll started to topple forward as Sariel's right hand slipped from the slippery, blood-covered hilt of the knife. She screamed as she started to fall, her left handhold on the sword's hilt weakening. She would be crushed if she could not manage to come out on top. As the troll fell forward, Sariel slipped onto the back of the troll, and then fell, the troll underneath her.

They were all here, all working together to bring down this great monstrosity. More nets were being flung now, tangling the trolls who evidently were not bright enough to shake them loose.

Sariel's troll had been one of the longest lasting. Even as Sariel struggled to get up, the last troll crumpled to his knees, and fell. She was sticky and dirty all over, covered in blood and gore. Sometime while fighting the troll, something had slashed her arm; there was a long cut bleeding fiercely. Sariel pushed away the pain, wondering how the others had done. Her energy seemed to have suddenly left her, and she felt unsteady. Were her companions injured?

She saw Aragorn and Gimli standing together, and Legolas heading toward them with Boromir, who had a gash on his shoulder. She looked at the Elf carefully, noting that he seemed well. Her breath hitched as she realized she had been checking for wounds on Legolas.

_I should be glad if he was hurt, or better yet, if he had died today. Does that not solve all my problems?_ Yet despite her thoughts, she was glad he was unharmed. Legolas turned in her direction and she hurriedly looked away, remembering that none of them knew that she was here.

Suddenly, the Elven whistle of danger sounded just as she reached the others. A wave of orcs rushed them, coming seemingly out of nowhere. Evidently, they had been hiding, waiting just for this moment when everyone was tired. The trolls had just been bait for the ambush. Almost a third of Lórien's fighting Elves had come here; if they were killed, the Elven stronghold would be vulnerable to attack. Sariel drew her bow and fired shot after shot as the orcs rushed toward them, until her arrows were gone.

She was almost weaponless for one knife and her sword were still in the troll. Sariel caught a glimpse of Legolas and their gazes met for a moment, dark blue with lighter blue. He looked shocked when he recognized her, then an expression crossed his face and he threw something at her.

Shocked, she caught the scintillating object just before the orcs closed on the Elves. It was an Elven knife; Legolas had given her one of his so that she could have a pair to fight with. Of course, Legolas had seen her in boyish clothing before, so he would recognize her.

"Thank you," she whispered to herself, knowing that he could not hear her over the sounds of battle, even as she focused herself on fighting. The orc was too close; Sariel could not spare a glance to her right to see how Legolas was doing with only one knife. Elven knives were designed to be used as a pair and most Elves were trained in knife fighting with two knives.

Sariel killed the orc easily and kept on fighting. She was so tired and her movements were starting to seem sluggish to her, not a good sign. It took her a moment even to realize that no more orcs were rushing toward her. She looked toward her right, where the rest of the Elves were finishing their last opponents off. They had triumphed after all.

Her mouth opened to cry out alarm when she saw the orc, as if in a dream. The orc was on the ground, but he was sitting up and holding a bow—and an arrow was nocked, aimed toward Aragorn. Sariel tried to run, tried to yell, tried to do something, but her body refused to obey. She saw Legolas see the orc, and take a step left, blocking Aragorn using his own body, crying out a warning even as the arrow hit him, making him stagger, and fall to his knees. He still swiftly drew an arrow, one of his last, and killed the orc.

A black-feathered, crude orc arrow seemed to have sprouted out of Aragorn's chest, and Sariel blinked, knowing it was impossible. The orc had only one arrow, and it had hit Legolas. It had hit Legolas!

Too late, she saw the second orc on her left, the one that had lain on the ground as if dead, take his remaining arrow and shoot it at Aragorn again. Gimli slew the orc with quick blows from his axe and dashed to his fallen companions. Seeing his frantic movements seemed to free her from her temporary paralysis.

Sariel ran to the Legolas and Aragorn as Gimli dropped to his knees by Legolas, Boromir doing the same by Aragorn. She finally reached Legolas and almost gasped with relief when she saw that the arrow had hit only his shoulder. Though the arrow had penetrated all the way through him, he would still be all right.

She turned to Aragorn at last, already knowing what she would see, feeling sick. Spending her life as an assassin had not prepared her for this. Killing people, being hurt, being wounded, had not prepared her for this. Nothing could have prepared her for seeing a friend, one that she had come to like and respect, with a mortal wound. She trembled, but her hands were numb and steady as she moved to cut the arrow from his chest. Aragorn looked so peaceful there, almost as if he was just sleeping, or resting. His eyes still shone brightly.

_This isn't right_, she thought horribly, over and over again. He struggled to say something. Sariel leaned over him to hear his whisper, as did Boromir.

"Tell…tell Arwen, that," he whispered, his voice hoarse and weak. Tears blurred Sariel's vision but she did not wipe them away.

"Tell her I love her. Tell her!" he commanded.

"You cannot leave her, Aragorn. You cannot give up, you cannot…_Aragorn_!" Sariel choked out.

"Do not grieve, Sariel. Tell the others not to…it would have happened sooner or later. Thank…thank Legolas for me. Remember. I love her." His breath rasping, painful to hear, and blood traced his lips. There was peace now instead of pain in his eyes. Sariel tried to stem the flow of blood frantically with cloth, with her hands, with anything.

"_An__í__ron_," he whispered. He looked to the side, to Legolas. "Sing it for me…" Aragorn closed his eyes.

"No! NO! Aragorn, you cannot! Aragorn, wake up, you cannot leave her like this!" Sariel cried out, shaking him frantically. It was oblivion's sleep, one that none would ever wake from, and she knew it in her heart. Her mind nevertheless refused to believe it. She jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Leave him be, Sariel," Boromir said quietly. "Leave him be."

She looked around wildly and saw the Elves gathered around them in a circle, a ring of golden-haired beings more beautiful than light, and all of them were powerless in the face of death. It was silent and the sun came shining down as if to bring cheer to the day, but it only served to make the spilt blood brighter, and the beautiful hair of the slain Elves gleamed as bright as gold. Legolas slowly walked to her and lifted her up so that she was standing by him.

Then in the midst of the carnage, they gathered around this fallen king, so far away from his people and homeland. Legolas lifted Aragorn's sword to the sun so that blood on the blade disappeared and it shone brightly, like a beacon of light, almost hurting the eyes. His single voice filled the air, hushed and husky with the edge of tears:

_O m__ö__r benion i dh__ü__:_

_Ely siriar __ë__l s__í__la_

_Ai! An__í__ron Und__ó__miel. _

_T__í__ro! __Ë__l enr__í__a e m__ö__r_

_I l__í__r en __ë__l luitha uren _

_Ai! An__í__ron… _

And Sariel, listening, felt the words and the voice pierce her through the heart. _From the darkness I understand the night: Dreams flow, a star shines. Ah! I desire the Evenstar. Look! A star rises out of darkness… The song of the star enchants my heart. Ah! I desire…_

o x o x o

She woke up lying in a bed. Her surroundings were vaguely familiar and Sariel realized that she was in her own rooms in Lothlórien. She opened her eyes and tried to sit up, then wished she hadn't. Her eyes blurred and her throat tightened painfully as the memories flooded back.

_I loved her._ Aragorn's voice. The trolls. The orc. Arwen. _Arwen!_

Her friend, who had feared so for her safety, when it was the safety of her beloved that should have occupied her heart. The Evenstar, her glow now to be dimmed by grief, perhaps forever, for Elves often did not survive heartbreak.

"You are awake." The voice jarred her out of the memories. Legolas.

"Arwen…where is she?" Sariel heard the weakness in her voice and hated herself for it. _No emotion_, she reminded herself futilely, knowing she was long past the stage when such rules could have governed her. "I must speak to her."

"This is not a good time, Sariel. She is grieving, as are we all." His voice was so gentle, washed with sorrow and weariness of the spirit.

_Tell them not to grieve_. The tears fell freely as Sariel gave in. She got up and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling cold. Legolas held her and she started to push him away, but then accepted his embrace as she cried herself out. It was only natural to feel so safe, to be grateful after witnessing a death so close to her. She tried to ignore the strength of those arms around her. Just for a little while, she told herself. Just for a little while, she could pretend none of this had happened, that nothing would happen in the future.

It was indeed a while later when her tears finally ceased. She was sitting besides Legolas, but he held her at an angle so that she remained pressed against him. The side of her face was pressed to his chest and she could hear the steady beat of his heart, feel the warmth of him. There was something tender about the moment, as if they were reaffirming the strength of life together. In some part of her mind, Sariel knew that it was wrong of her to do this, it would only make everything harder later on, but it did not seem to matter so much now. The grief was still too near.

Even in the sanctuary of her rooms, she seemed to hear the ghostly sounds of a lament being sung, echoing into the heart and unstopped by mere solid things like walls.

Legolas's hand was on her head and he cradled her closer to him, but Sariel stiffened suddenly, remembering that he had been wounded. She twisted in his hold and saw that his left shoulder was heavily bandaged, looking rather bulky because of the coverings.

"Is your shoulder…" She did not know what to ask.

"It will be fine," Legolas murmured. "I will recover soon enough."

"The others?"

"Boromir was hurt, but not badly. Ten casualties. Many are wounded, but most are not badly hurt." His voice was soft and bleak.

Ten casualties. _Including Aragorn?_ her mind wondered.

"Aragorn… He said to—to thank you. And to tell you and the others not to grieve. He said that it would have happened sooner or later." Sariel could not face him, could not bear to see the shadow of sorrow in those clear blue eyes. "I must see Arwen," she repeated.

There was a long silence before he answered, and he did not look at her either, though they still held each other close. She closed her eyes and listened to his heartbeat again, tears spiking her lashes. His voice was unsteady.

"I will tell her to come." Legolas stepped away from her and left silently.

Everything was so silent, but for the lament. It was as if the world had stopped breathing, as if life had stopped and frozen at this time and place. Sariel waited, unable to stop seeing Aragorn's broken form on the ground, the ugly black-fletched orc arrows in his chest. After some time, Arwen came in. Sariel did not look up, did not move to indicate that she heard the soft sound of the door closing. Legolas was with her.

"He wanted to tell you he loved you. He kept saying that. He loved you. He said not to grieve because it would have happened sooner or later." Her voice was like midnight, dark with sorrow. She saw Arwen turn to Legolas and bury her face into his shirt as he held her. For a brief moment, a flicker of jealousy went through her, and then she was immediately guilty to have felt that way, when Arwen had just lost her love and badly needed comfort.

Comfort among the Elves was different; strangers could comfort each other and it would be all right, because Elves needed the touch of other Elves. They craved it in times of sorrow. It was different from the human touch, a sharing of spirit. After a while, Legolas left the room.

Finally, Sariel raised her gaze to meet Arwen's. The pain she saw in those penetrating grey eyes in a face so like her own ripped through her and left her heart bleeding, her own personal sorrows forgotten. Wordlessly, she went to Arwen and embraced her tightly.

"How I love him," Arwen whispered. "I—I was going to give my life to him. But he left me here. He left me here, all alone…without him!" It was a cry from the heart, a cry from a broken soul. The shining future that she had imagined with him, as his queen, was destroyed as easily as that, shattered by the crude arrow of an orc. The leader, who had been through so much in order to return to her, felled by the lowest nothing, an orc. So sudden, unexpectedly, and then everything was gone.

"Shhh," Sariel whispered back. "It will be all right." Even as she said the words, she knew it would not, and she wondered how she could lie like this. She hugged Arwen tighter, closer. It felt like they had known each other for all their lives.

"Why? Why did he leave me? I would have died with him. Why?"

The soft words were like the pleading of a small child who could not understand, and they stabbed Sariel right through the heart. Why was life so cruel? _Who could answer that question?_

"I do not know," Sariel answered, rocking them back and forth, wishing she could ease some of Arwen's pain, or take some of it into herself.

"Sariel…he was everything. I would have given him all I could. He was my world, he was everything to me, and he left me!"

"It is all right, Arwen, it _will be_ all right. He loves you." Sariel's breath hitched when she realized that she still used the present tense. But was it not true? Wherever Aragorn's spirit had gone, did he not still love his Arwen Undómiel? "He loves you. He wanted you to know that very much."

Was a life without end a blessing or a curse? To be forever wandering this earth, having lost love… Sariel did not think she could bear it, but Arwen was stronger in spirit than she was.

They stood there for an eternity, holding each other, cried out after a while. It would have been easier to weep, but even that small reprieve was denied them. Finally, Arwen moved a little, still embracing Sariel tightly. Her lips opened just a little next to Sariel's ear, whispering, so desperate for someone to understand. Sariel understood. She understood love's lies, the fairytales spun out of nothingness, she understood only far too well.

"It will be all right," she said soothingly to this Elf that seemed like a sister to her. "He wanted you to know he loves you."

"I loved him too. It should not have been like this. He was cheated of his time—our time."

There was nothing she could say to that. It seemed so unreal, like it was all a dream. Sariel was pretending to be something she was not, but then why was it so painful? It felt as if the friendship with Arwen was real. Her heart told her the truth even when she refused to acknowledge it. Her pain and loss for Aragorn was real, her feelings for Legolas existed, but it was all wrapped up in a lie so great that it was her entire life. She was not who she appeared to be, and Sariel felt the guilt of her deception keenly as she tried to comfort Arwen in vain.

Aragorn's death, Arwen bereft of love—nothing struck her as painfully as the knowledge that no one would ever feel pain like this for her sake. After all, who was she, but an assassin? Sariel closed her eyes.

"He loves you," she whispered to Arwen.

* * *

A/N: Please review — thanks!

_Finalized June 2008_


	6. Death Shall Be His Fate

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Written with utmost respect to J.R.R. Tolkien, who wrote in _Letters_ that 'I would draw some of the great tales in fullness, and leave many open places in the scheme…the cycles should be linked to a majestic whole, and yet leave scope for other minds and hands, wielding paint and music and drama…'

Translations:

_m__í__riel_: jewel

_yrch_: orcs

**

* * *

Chapter 6: Death Shall Be His Fate**

* * *

Sariel paced restlessly, a nervous energy irritably thrumming all throughout her body. She wanted to act; she _needed_ to do something. She had originally planned for a morning ride with Arwen but her friend had proved to be recalcitrant, and no amount of cajoling had persuaded her, understandably. The last two weeks had been an awful time for all, but it had been even worse for Arwen. She handled the aftermath of Aragorn's death without even allowing herself time to grieve, sending message after message to Gondor and seeing to the burial of Aragorn here in Lothlórien. There had been a brief issue over whether Gondor was a more fitting place, but Arwen had overridden all objections. No one was capable of arguing with her at such a time.

In fact, Sariel could hardly bear to even look at her friend. The bright spirit that had been Arwen had disappeared and had left an empty husk mourning for Aragorn. Worry for Arwen kept Sariel preoccupied, but the turmoil had at least given her an excuse for putting off her task. She had feared at first that the events would have forced her to make her move—grief was a potent distraction, as she was experiencing for herself—but despite the lax security, Belderon had ordered her to wait. Perhaps it was because he wanted Legolas's death to be the focus of attention. Sariel could tell that it mattered to Belderon, but she did not dare inquire as to why.

For all the skill the Elves had in matters of healing, the wounds of the mind and heart were always the most difficult to heal. No one could do anything but wait and see, hoping that the next day would dawn a little brighter. Despite the fact that Sariel knew better than to let herself be emotionally involved, it was too late to distance herself from Arwen. It had been too late ever since Legolas had introduced her to Sariel, actively encouraging their friendship. Now, Sariel could only offer her companionship in her attempts to comfort the Elf who had lost her heart's mate.

The bleakness in Arwen's eyes scared her. There was something soulless in the shadows of her eyes, something broken beyond repair. Worse yet, the expression seemed hauntingly familiar, but logically Sariel knew that she could only have seen it in Belderon, her family, or herself. Whenever she caught a glimpse of herself in mirrors, she found herself stopping to stare into her own eyes, inspecting the dark blue for some kind of darkness, always fearing what she would find.

Something so trivial should not have troubled her, but it did. The assassin would have been calm about all that had happened, but Sariel had slipped out of that role once too often and now she could not regain the objectivity she needed. The strange ebb and flow of time in Lórien created more than enough moments for Sariel to be disturbed by thoughts of how the families and friends of her victims had reacted to their loved one's death. She had never truly witnessed the consequences of her actions, always returning to Nenuial as soon as her task was done. Belderon had invested too many years in her to let her risk being captured or killed.

Too many thoughts spiraling in her mind, Sariel opened her door and stepped into the hallway, looking for a moment at the closed door that confronted her. Was it coincidence that they had been assigned rooms next to each other but in a different wing than their other companions? Was Legolas even now resting inside, unaware of the danger that was so close to him? Shaking off her doubts, Sariel left the empty hallway and quickly found Arwen again, leading her almost forcefully to the stables.

Arwen watched in silence as Sariel saddled Myste and then Míriel, Arwen's black mare. Like a child, Arwen accepted Sariel's help in mounting though she hardly needed it, never murmuring a word of protest or thanks. Her face remained so blank that Sariel wanted to grab hold of her shoulders and shake her, just to relieve some of the frustration boiling inside of her. Anything just to see a spark of life, a little proof that Arwen wanted to live outside of duty.

Myste had not been out of the stables for a few days, so Sariel let the filly do as she liked, working off both horse and rider's built up tension with a hard gallop. Míriel followed willingly, Arwen bent low over her back, handfuls of Míriel's mane in her hands as the two horses raced. When Sariel looked over her shoulder, she glimpsed the shining trails of tears on Arwen's cheeks, the other Elf's face half hidden. Her heart in her throat, Sariel faced forward again, willing for Arwen to find some release for her pain, however slight. They flew through the woods, the horses' hoofbeats louder on the beaten dirt path than on the forest loam, their activities bringing a desperation and vitality to the otherwise calm and still trees. There was no breeze except what they created through their own momentum, horse and rider fused into one.

It seemed like only a short time had passed before they burst into a clearing, the newly visible sun bright on the grass. In the next moment, Sariel sat back in her seat and stopped Myste, calling for Arwen to do the same. She heard sounds other than those that they had made, but before the two Elves had time to do much else, the approaching riders had seen them.

It was Haldir who met them, mounted on a copper stallion with a creamy mane. The marchwarden's eyes were serious and his posture sublimely perfect. Accompanying him was another blond Elf with hair so light it was nearly silver and similarly pale grey-green eyes which caught the sunlight like translucent crystal. The two drew alongside Arwen and Sariel.

Haldir murmured a greeting to Arwen and then to Sariel; both bore weapons and were dressed for scouting in drab colored clothing. The other Elf urged his bay stallion closer and Sariel finally took in the narrow, angular features of his face, the wispy eyebrows above eyes that had suddenly widened in surprise and confusion as they looked at her. He was taller than Sariel and his stallion was probably two hands taller than Myste, but despite the difference in their levels, she saw the sorrow that flickered across the stranger's face, quickly changing to disbelief.

"Sariel?" he breathed, his right hand involuntarily reaching across the distance between the two horses as if trying to be certain she was real.

"_Vanidar_," she uttered without thinking, caught up in the memory of the past.

* * *

_A young Elf with silver-blond hair and frosty eyes ran with his accomplice in mischief as the slightly older Haldir glared at the pair he chased. Sariel's laughter burst out, merry and pleased, and her cheeks were flushed with high spirits. Haldir's hands were fumbling with his long golden hair, trying in vain to take the arrow out of his hair from where Sariel had deftly and tightly braided it._

"_I'll get you for this!" he seethed as he chased after the gregarious pair, dignity in shreds. Vanidar was faster than Sariel, sprinting past her and heading towards the pond, their planned destination. Sariel caught up to him just as Haldir stopped for a moment and triumphantly extracted the arrow from his hair. _

"_I dare you to, Sariel! Push him in!" suggested Vanidar, eyes sparkling in anticipation of their next adventure. "Can you imagine him sopping wet with tangled hair? I'd like to see his expression then!" Rebellion and gleeful anticipation laced his words. _

"_Lead him toward the deeper end, and I'll do it," Sariel said between breaths, determined to get her revenge on the teacher who lectured at her until her head ached. Vanidar raised his wispy eyebrows at her skeptically._

"_I really will!" she said, stung by his disbelief. "Even if I have to write lines for the next three days straight! If you distract him, Haldir won't even notice when I drop out of sight, and the next time he sees me, it'll be through pond water." Sariel smiled impishly as Vanidar nodded in agreement and slowed to a jog. The imaginative pair signaled each other, twin grins spreading across their gamine faces. Sariel dropped back, disappearing behind a bush. _

"_Try and catch me!" Vanidar yelled to Haldir childishly, knowing that he could easily do so. He sprinted as fast as he could towards the pond, appearing to be ready to dive into the icy water in order to escape his tutor's wrath. Haldir followed right to the edge, where his eyes narrowed suddenly as he noticed that Sariel was missing. _

_Too late. _

_Sariel ran out and pushed him with both arms outstretched, but at the last moment he turned and grabbed her hand, the momentum of his fall pulling her in with him. They landed with a huge splash, a huge shock going through Sariel's body at the freezing water. Haldir refusing to let go of Sariel's hand even when they both surfaced again, dragging them to the shallower end where they finally regained their footing, waist-deep in water. Despite herself, Sariel let out a giggle at the glare Haldir managed to give her despite looking wet, shivering, and thoroughly miserable._

"_Lines!" he said, completely disregarding the fact that he stood in the middle of a pond. He began to dictate. "For the next three days: "What is past will not be forgotten, yet there is a future left to all who possess the virtue to repent, the sincerity to atone, and—"_

_ Vanidar's laughter was so loud that even Haldir could not ignore it. He stood by the water's edge, completely undismayed by Sariel's misfortune. "See?" he called out to Sariel. "Even his punishments are completely predictable!"_

_ At that, Haldir turned to pin Vanidar under an unrelenting grey gaze. Vanidar grew nervous as cunning filled their young teacher's eyes, remembering that Haldir possessed the will and discipline to practice knife throwing until he could pin a blade of grass at fifty paces. _

"_Predictable, did you say?" Suddenly, Haldir surged from the water and grabbed a shrieking Vanidar, who hovered for a moment, struggling for balance, before he fell in the water with painful impact. It was moments before he sputtered up to the surface again, indignation all over his face. Glancing over, Sariel was amazed to see a smug expression and a smile on her instructor's usually composed face. They looked at each other, all three shivering in the water, their wet hair plastered to their faces, and it was Haldir who started laughing first, shaking his head ruefully at being outmaneuvered by his charges. _

_Haldir wasn't as bad as we thought he was, Sariel reflected later, thinking of the events of that day as they dried off next to the fireplace after a sound scolding from her parents. Sometimes we forget that he really isn't that much older than us after all, when he's shouting at us during our lessons. She smiled rather guiltily at the thought of all the pranks they had sprung on him. _

_As if sharing her thought, Vanidar turned to her, and together they looked at Haldir. The Elf looked at both of them and finally shrugged, a half-smile of acceptance on his face. Being their mentor meant many wild days and constant surprises, but underneath it all, Vanidar and Sariel truly took him as their role model. He was their teacher, older brother, and friend. _

"_He _did _win the archery contest for three straight years," Sariel whispered to Vanidar, but loudly enough for Haldir to hear. "But that doesn't mean we can't beat him next year!" Haldir rolled his eyes as Sariel and Vanidar shared a glance, smiling together deviously. _

_Haldir left later on, and Sariel and Vanidar were left together, staring into the flames. There were usually only a few children of similar age, and it heightened the companionship between the two friends. _

"_I will always love you," Vanidar said softly, as if out of nowhere. _

"_And I, you," Sariel replied without hesitation, hugging her dear friend tightly. For a while, she had been so certain that she loved him, but they had both realized that their connection extended far beyond that. They were more than friends__—so much more that __lovers could never be a term for them, either. Something in them recognized each other, as if they truly were the twins that others had called them in jest. _

"_For eternity, come what may…" she whispered, looking through the corner of her eye at the strands of light and dark hair, his and hers. She didn't need to see his face to know that he smiled as he finished their longtime oath. _

"_Together forever," he promised. "Right, Sariel?"_

"_Of course." _

_Silly as the words sounded, they warmed Sariel inside and she smiled at him with radiance. _

* * *

Myste shied away from the bay stallion, bringing Sariel back to the present with a start as she tried to calm the filly. She groaned inwardly, realizing her mistake when she saw Vanidar give Haldir a pointed look. If they found out, or even suspected…

"Forgive my rudeness, some Elves mentioned your name and one of them pointed you out for me before," Sariel said quickly, hoping they would overlook the matter. Even Arwen was looking at her curiously. "I do not believe I am acquainted with you, but you are correct, my name is Sariel."

"As you know, I am Vanidar."

The two could not have brought good news, judging by their grim expressions, so Sariel urged Arwen to go ahead, agreeing to find her later at the very pond she had been remembering. To her surprise, Haldir intervened and asked for Arwen to wait nearby, although he wanted to speak to Sariel alone. Normally, the raven-haired Elf would have been suspicious, but the new Arwen simply turned Míriel away without a word. Sariel gazed worriedly after her and finally turned back to Haldir.

"What news?" Sariel asked as soon as the three of them were alone.

"_Yrch_, in great numbers. After the battle with the trolls, I sent more scouts to check the surrounding areas. Just as you told Lady Galadriel, the orcs seem to be forming bands and more alliances with trolls. The woods around Lórien are no longer safe and even now, I am riding with others to scout. I do not want you, Lady Arwen, or any other Elves to be riding near the borders of Lórien where there is so much danger." Haldir sat almost stiffly in the saddle now and his stallion shifted restlessly beneath him, surely reflecting his rider's mood.

"These alliances are unnatural and we fear someone has been initiating them," Vanidar added, his mouth set in a forbidding line. His crystalline eyes had a faraway look and Sariel guessed that he was remembering the other Elves that had perished in their single battle against the trolls. Their success had come at the cost of many lives, including Aragorn's—it was not a victory. She wondered how many others would die before the woods were free of filth again, and then she wondered if one person's death would be enough. Belderon had to be the instigator of the orcs' newly ambitious movements.

Vanidar finally focused on her again, taking her silence as consent. "More reports have been coming from Imladris and the Rohirrim, the Riders of Rohan, have also been fighting. All troubling signs."

Sariel did not want to remember Belderon's unconditional hate for the Elven race, but she had been forced to acknowledge it too many times. When she had been young, she had once asked him why they were the only Elves near Nenuial. The rage that had filled his eyes had told her the answer before he had even spoken: Belderon had killed every Elf that crossed his path. Her knowledge of Belderon now weighed heavily as she heard Vanidar and Haldir's warnings. They had no idea what was waiting for them, the methodical and ruthless plans aimed at exterminating an entire race. The only question was why, but did it even matter?

Seeing that Sariel was sick at heart from the news, Haldir's voice gentled. He gestured toward Arwen. "Take her to the music room. She probably would prefer solitude and would want to avoid all the well-wishers trying to comfort her," he suggested. "Perhaps she will find some solace there."

Sariel nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and gently turned Myste in the direction that Arwen had taken but a few minutes before. When she found Arwen and informed her that they would have to return, Arwen accepted Sariel's vague excuse although it was clear she knew that they were all hiding something from her. Thankfully, she did not ask what Sariel had discussed with Haldir and Vanidar, either because she did not care or because she preferred not to know.

Sariel only wished that she, too, did not need to be burdened with knowledge of so many future deaths.

* * *

The music chamber was full of beautiful instruments and its walls fairly thrummed with the memory of songs played in the room from the past. When Sariel, seeking to draw Arwen into conversation, mentioned that she loved the harp the most of all, Arwen seemed to forget her sorrow and quickly led them to the back. There, an entire row of harps of all sizes and shapes gleamed. Arwen idly ran her hands along the strings of a harp she chose and the shivery sound reminded Sariel of Lorianiel. Her mother had favored the instrument above others.

For a few hours, Sariel played delightedly on the harps, each with its own enthralling qualities and distinctive sound. One drew her back to it again and again, although it was no different from the others except in appearance. Where most of the harps were sparsely decorated, as the Elves valued the beauty of the natural state, every inch of the wood on this harp was fancifully carved. Strange horned horses chased the moon while sleeping dragons lovingly twined around the wood and little winged people danced upon flowers. It was almost too much, but the carvings seemed to tell some disconnected tale designed to delight a child and so it delighted Sariel.

It was only when she leaned to lightly blow away a speck of dust that she saw a small carving in the wood, lost amid the others. Shocked, Sariel quickly returned the harp and selected another blindly, playing it with slightly unsteady fingers. Arwen seemed to notice something amiss, but her examination of the design that had caused Sariel to turn away so abruptly revealed nothing special. It was a simple one, a lovely rose etched out of a few stylized lines. Arwen had not the heart to ask what was wrong although Sariel did not go near the harp again.

Arwen's delight lay in the woodwind instruments, particularly the flute. She was so skilled that Sariel caught her breath in wonder as the ethereal, haunting notes soared, speaking of love and sorrow as well as trust and betrayal. All these emotions and more were evoked; sometimes the notes were playful and happy, two butterflies dancing among the flowers, other times sad and wistful, bringing to mind a charcoal sketch Sariel had once seen. It had shown a wolf awaiting his mate under the moon, never to know she had long since died at the hands of trappers who cared only for the money the rich fur would bring. Even when Arwen stopped playing, Sariel was reluctant to destroy the lingering melodies running through her mind.

"Did you compose it yourself?" she asked, her voice even quieter than the flute's enchanting delicacy.

"Yes," was the simple response, and try as Sariel might to engage Arwen, she spoke and played no more.

They spent a few more hours until someone opened the door and stepped into the room. Sariel glanced up from the harp to see Legolas, listening as he invited Arwen to weapons' practice, politely including her. Although they had shared a few close moments in the wake of Aragorn's death, frequently together as they both attended Arwen, Sariel had not forgotten his reserve after she had won the archery contest.

Her eyes returned to him again and again as she wondered why he had drawn away that day after looking at her. What had he seen in her eyes that had changed his opinion of her? She was always uneasy in his presence, feeling as if she were caught between two conflicting desires. Her duty was clear, of course, but it had all become complicated.

Arwen accepted the offer and it lifted Sariel's spirits to see the sparkle back in her friend's eyes. The three of them agreed to meet at the practice area and Legolas made some offhand comment that changed everything, because for the first time since Aragorn's death, Sariel heard laughter in her friend's voice again, for however brief a time.

* * *

Sariel's muscles ached and trembled, her head throbbed, and she was disgustingly sweaty. Her partner had been Merengail, her rival during the archery contest, and he had shown no mercy in the fighting, even in the familiar drills. As accustomed as she was to the constant drills, Sariel had been sorely challenged and she suspected that Merengail was partly motivated by the outcome of their competition. However, she welcomed the distraction, letting herself slip into the perfect focus of practice, knowing that the missing faces in the room had caused all the Elves to push themselves harder. Her throat tightened as she remembered watching Aragorn and Boromir's practice bouts on the way to Lórien.

After bathing and changing, she walked outside with a borrowed harp, wandering underneath the towering trees. Elves hailed her, but she walked on until eventually she found an isolated spot, perfect for her needs. She sat beneath a tree, leaning back against the rough bark, methodically tuning the instrument as she thought. She plucked at the strings with listless fingers, unsure of why she was here and wondering what she was doing.

Slowly, her fingers picked out a simple tune, half remembering and fumbling to match the memory of her mother's singing. It was just the mixture of wistfulness and incertitude that characterized her present existence.

_Little brown sparrow, what would you be?_

_Scruffy little soul, just like me_

_Would you be an eagle, soaring high,_

_Or would you be a swan, gliding by?_

_Would you want heaven's endless skies_

_Or prefer the earth's sweetest ties?_

_Wishing to be different, brighter be,_

_Yet wanting all the comforts of home with me. _

Sariel sang on, lost in all the fragments of her memory. The maiden who had composed the song, a lovely Elf named Rhiannon, had written a song about a girl yearning for something different while also wishing to keep the old familiar life she had learned. She had sung to a sparrow, telling him of her dreams and divided wishes, and the sparrow had magically transformed into an Elf who sang back to her of his love for her. The song alternated in a sort of musical dialogue from there, the girl questioning and unsure, the transformed sparrow singing the male role, confident and unwavering.

It had been too long since she had wanted to sing. Not since that day that Belderon had heard her, and from then on had called her _his_ little Nightingale, making a mockery of one of Sariel's greatest delights. He had transformed even this one escape into another kind of servitude.

Just as she was finishing the maiden's first part, a clear, light tenor joined in where the first male solo started. Startled and more than a little shocked—she had been certain that she was alone—Sariel's voice faltered, but her part was over. The male solo dominated. She looked up from the harp, fingers still picking out the correct strings from habit.

Legolas stood in front of her, merriment brightening his eyes as he sang the Elvish words. His voice was exhilaratingly sweet and true, far fairer than Sariel's own, although she was not a poor singer. She barely recovered from her surprise in time to join in on the second female solo, but both continued singing after that. Legolas added another quality to the song that transformed it from merely sweet to something more, and he seemed to sing with greater emotion that Sariel had ever heard, drawing out notes as if he knew exactly what Rhiannon had meant to express when she had written the song.

The ending was a harmonious blending of both voices, unaccompanied by any instruments. Sariel left the harp and rose to her feet, eyes closed and concentrating solely on the song. The music flowed around her and into her, making her heart ache until she was almost in tears. It was a sad ending, with tragedy befalling the lovers and the maiden taken by death, her lover joining her of his own choice. Legolas turned away from her as they ended, the moment too emotional for them to share with one another—and yet they had, their voices intertwined.

The song seemed to hold some special significance for him and she wondered if it reminded him of a lover. With the thought came a renewal of heartache and she resolutely shoved the feelings deep down inside of her. Sariel started to move away but she had barely gone a step before Legolas turned to face her. There were tears still glittering in her eyes and amazed, she stopped. His face seemed full of a strange vulnerability.

"Wait," he said huskily, although she could not have done anything else. She turned away from him though, unable to bear the rawness of his expression. It was too intimate for comfort. Her reason cried that he should not show such things to anyone, least of all her.

Legolas reached out to her, unable to hear her thoughts, and his arms closed protectively around her from behind. Sariel resisted for a moment but the way he had looked was too vivid in her mind. The larger part of her wanted more than anything to comfort him and to erase whatever had caused him pain. Her heart racing, she allowed herself to relax and even lean back against him. She was short enough that her head rested against his shoulder. The intensity of his emotions made her feel as if hurt emanated from him in the same way she could feel his warmth and she wondered again why it was the song that had undone him.

His defenses did not stay down for long, however. His arms left her and she felt the loss keenly before they returned on her shoulders. Legolas turned her around to face him and he pulled her close to him again. Sariel looked up at him uncertainly, shock shivering through her body when he hesitantly touched her cheek and then her dark hair. He seemed about to say something and she waited, hardly breathing, but then he simply closed the last distance between them and his lips met hers. He kissed her, gently at first and then again, while her senses were all confused, not so gently.

It was almost as if her heart had stopped, astonishment sweeping over her but giving way almost immediately to something so much stronger and deeper that everything else was forgotten. She forgot her worry about his tears and her unease that someone so evidently proud would share his moment of weakness with her. She forgot to stop herself from hugging him fiercely and forgot that he was, after all, not something she could claim, even if he was offering himself.

Sariel turned her face to the side and his hand cradled her head to his chest, tucked under his chin. The joy and amazement had settled into her body, making her limbs feel heavy. Her blood seemed to be moving sluggishly through her veins as if he had drugged her with tenderness. It did not matter; he seemed content to just hold her while they were both caught in the net of emotion.

The words of the song, so simple and innocent, wrapped them in warmth. But the rhyme seemed to echo another and unbidden, Sariel's blood-oath rose in her mind.

It was dread that made her gasp now, a sharp inhalation of breath, and Sariel suddenly pushed hard against Legolas, nearly making herself fall. He stumbled back at the violent shove and then stared at her in surprise, reaching out to her. When she visibly flinched and turned pale, his hand fell.

"Sariel?" he asked.

It was too much, the sound of her name in his voice washing over her, his concern. If she moved, if she even reacted, she would break. She stood perfectly still for a moment, everything in chaos inside of her. _Oh, sweet light of Eärendil, what am I doing? Great Elbereth, help me…_ Her eyes were wild, hardly seeing him when her gaze met his for a moment.

Then Sariel turned, snatched up the harp, and ran blindly into the trees, the forest blurred from bitter tears.

* * *

The weeping had finally stopped, both the tears that had seemed endless and the uncontrollable shaking of her body. She had bitten her lip so hard that she could taste the coppery tang of blood but she was calm now, the sort of calm that existed when there was a lull in a storm. The harp lay abandoned behind her; she could not bear to see it. Instead, the small bag of her basic assassin's tools lay before her, concealing its neatly organized contents. She stared at it, knowing that it had to be today.

She had already delayed too long, telling herself that she was busy comforting Arwen, allowing her to slip more and more into a life here at Lórien—a life that was an illusion. Her name was Sariel but even now, it felt as if her identity were breaking apart, pieces of truth and lies all fragmenting until the thought of her name was strange to her. If Haldir and Vanidar happened to discuss her, they would be sure that something was amiss.

There were other, more pressing reasons. _Can I still do it? _she questioned herself. She had never felt that way about anyone else, the instinctive need to protect something precious to her…. She had never felt as if she were precious to anyone else, but he had made her feel that way, and so much more. There was the way he had threaded a strand of her hair through his fingers, and the way he so carefully kissed her, as if understanding that all of this was utterly new and overwhelming. More and more, she knew that what she felt for Lorianiel and Lessena was born mostly out of desperation.

_They are all I have_, she reminded herself. _If Legolas cares for me, it is just as much an illusion as my identity…_ She loved her mother and sister, she could not exist any other way—there would be no reason to live without them, no reason for her to have done all the terrible things she had done. _It has to be today, because I will not have the courage to do it if I spend more time in his company. _

She had been deprived of her emotions for so long that both she and Belderon had finally believed she had none. It was only now that Sariel knew that Belderon had been wrong for thinking that he had finally quenched the fire of her passionate child's heart. It was that same strength of will that had made her decide to live at all costs, to choose life even at the expense of others' lives.

Belderon had not contacted her for some time, but his orders were always fresh in her mind. She had memorized every word. _I want you to make him bleed to death. You will stab him in the heart with the silver stiletto and let him see you…I want the look of horror in his eyes._

If only Belderon knew that the horror would be more than he could possibly have ever anticipated. She had no more tears left in her, but Sariel almost wished she could weep to death. Since her initial decision, she had never doubted that she would do anything in order to protect herself and her family. Her father waited for her vengeance; how could she consider giving up? How could she be weak and choose the death that was so much easier than life?

But how could she stand over Legolas, waiting and watching by his side as his life's blood poured out, knowing that the agony of his pain was a thousand times more intense than what she had felt today?

* * *

In a chamber at the heart of the great tree there was a sudden silence. The Lady Galadriel paused in the middle of her sentence. For a fleeting moment she had sensed a malevolent presence in Lothlórien, in her realm. Who dared to trespass here, to sully the purity here? Although she had stopped talking abruptly, no one made a sound. Gradually, she came back to herself, and realized that Legolas and Haldir were staring at her, puzzled, as was everyone else. Beside her, Celeborn asked if anything was wrong.

Galadriel was surprised, for he should have felt the presence as well, but her husband did not. It did not make sense, so she dismissed it for now. Vanidar was looking at her expectantly, and the threat of the orcs and trolls was more important. She banished her uneasy feeling and continued.

"I have summoned you all here to discuss the rising threat of the orcs and their new allies, the trolls. Most of you have fought in the battle just past, and know by how little a margin we won, the great cost we paid. It is too high a price to pay.

"Many years ago, the taint had spread to Mirkwood, and the scars of that inner battle are still there now. We faced the same threat when Sauron sent his minions after the Ring, but were saved by the forming of the Fellowship, of which Legolas, Gimli, and Boromir," she gestured to them, "were a part of. Those nine agreed to bear the burden. War came, and man and Elf, Dwarf and Ent, and all the people of Middle-Earth united to defeat the evil spreading like darkness over the land.

"But this new threat is aimed at the heart of the Elves, and our allies among the Men may or may not help us now in our time of need. This new threat must be faced by all our kind.

"Yes, every being in this room knows of what I speak. We cannot retreat and hope that these unnatural alliances will be broken by time. Imladris has been preparing itself, as has Mirkwood, and all other places. Where there is life, there will also be death, for nothing comes without sacrifice. Although we are not a warlike race, we will protect ourselves. The Rohirrim and our other allies have been organizing themselves. We must prepare for what we have most dreaded…_war_."

* * *

It had to be tonight. The words were like a chant in her mind, steadying her nerves. Sariel had asked Eirien to find her parchment earlier and now found it ready for her. She now addressed an envelope to Arwen and wrote to her on the thick, cream colored parchment, discovering that a few tears were left in her after all. She was careful to let none smudge the words, despite how she poured out her sorrow in the letter. She asked for understanding and yet not forgiveness. She could not even forgive herself.

Sariel told Arwen what would happen, but not why; she expressed her grief and horror, but did not write the reason. It would be her final farewell to this sister of the soul that she had found and had cherished for one glorious month.

After carefully penning the long letter in neat cursive, she hesitated, unsure of what to do. Sariel finally got up stiffly from her chair and went to her saddlebags, taking out a small black box. Inside, a wooden seal and a stick of red wax lay next to each other. Sariel took a candle and partially melted the wax on top of the letter until it was soft, then stamped her seal upon it, a stylized rose. The seal was one of the few things, like her sword, that was solely hers and never Belderon's.

She remembered the handsome, smiling face of her father, the pride in his eyes when he had given the seal to her as a present, saying that he had carved it especially for her. It was the symbol of her family but if anyone recognized it, by the time Arwen read the letter, it would be too late.

Sariel spent a few more hours with Arwen, selfishly wanting those last memories, but pleaded a headache before dinner. Once inside the privacy of her room, having returned ostensibly to rest, she took out her bag of assassin's tools. Inside a small kit were her poisons and medicines, all in tiny vials neatly labeled in a code so that only she knew what powder was in each vial.

With steady hands, she opened one of the vials and poured out small, oblong, slightly greyish seeds. It took only moments for her to ground them into a fine powder, measuring out how much she would need. _Narendil_ seeds had to be ground right before using the powder so that the effect they produced would be the most potent. She carefully poured the powder into a tiny folded bag, slipping it into the sleeve of her dress and securing it with a few stitches.

The gown that she would wear to dinner was colored the dark blue of her eyes and hugged her slender waist, flaring out until it reached her feet. The sleeves ended in rippling cloth as well, halfway between her elbow and wrist, perfect for her plans. The cut she had received from an orc during the fighting had healed, leaving a thin, newly pale mark on her arm barely concealed by the dress. The neck of her gown was high enough to hide the vial of blood that she was wearing again. She would need it tonight.

Sariel's other preparations were quick. She undid her braid and let most of it free except for two thin braids framing her face; the length could aid her as a distraction. She checked everything twice and then locked the room, leaving for dinner.

It had to be tonight.

* * *

Before she entered the dining room where her companions waited, Sariel examined the seating arrangements. There was an empty seat to the right of Legolas, which was the perfect position for what she planned to do—almost too perfect. She could not stop herself from wondering if he had kept it empty for her. With that thought on her mind, she walked in and took the place, unsuccessfully willing herself to remain calm. The combination of her task and what had happened made it impossible.

They did not look at each other or speak to each other, so it was unlikely that Legolas had had anything to do with the empty seat. He had not followed her after all, so perhaps he had taken it as a rejection. It was one, after all, although not for the reasons he thought. The memories of the afternoon seemed to be painful to both of them.

The other empty seats were slowly filled as people filtered in and took their places, chatting amiably with each other. The low conversational sounds continued, sometimes punctuated with a laugh, throughout the dinner. Sariel forced herself to eat although if anyone had been truly paying attention, they would have noticed that she spent more time cutting her food than actually tasting it. Arwen was withdrawn again and Legolas avoided looking at her assiduously, probably regretting that she had chosen to sit next to her.

She regretted it as well, with all her heart. About halfway through the dinner, she picked up the wine pitcher and refilled her glass, then Arwen's glass to her right. Then she turned to Legolas, on her left.

"Would you like some wine?" she asked. It was the first thing she had said to him the entire evening. Her voice was even, polite, and distant.

He did not look at her even then. "Yes, thank you."

The cup was right next to her and Sariel poured it until it was full. As she set the heavy silver pitcher down, she knocked it against the cup and gasped as the cup wobbled. Legolas instinctively reached out to help her steady the cup, but Sariel quickly reached out with her left hand, brushing his hand. He snatched his hand away as if she had burned him, his eyes finally meeting hers.

The gesture pained her and his expression hurt even more, but Sariel did not take her mind off her true task. In a moment, the powder was in the cup and quickly dissolving, hidden by her flowing sleeves. When she removed her hand from the cup, Legolas looking down at the movement, nothing could be seen except for the clear dark wine.

"I am sorry," Sariel said. Her voice had started out earnest and embarrassed, but she could not stop her tone from changing when she continued. The words were forced out in a near whisper. "Please forgive me."

"No harm done. Thank you," Legolas replied shortly, his voice as civil as he could manage. Sariel tasted blood again and tried in vain to wash it from her mouth with wine.

For the rest of her meal, she watched him out of the corner of her eye as he drank the wine. When they got up to leave, just a little bit was left at the bottom of the cup, barely a mouthful. He would sleep deeply tonight.

She excused herself, telling Arwen that her headache had returned and she wished to rest. Back in her room, she silently changed clothes, garbing herself in black pants and shirt, covering her from neck to just above her ankles. She lay back on the bed, trying to sleep, but she could not. Images of Legolas and Arwen rose to haunt her, and Belderon's voice filled her mind. She was defying him, after all. Belderon had wanted him immobilized and aware during her attack, but Sariel knew she could not do it that way.

She saw Vanidar's smile, both on his younger and present self, and remembered how Haldir had congratulated her after the archery contest. She gazed into the wise eyes of Galadriel and shuddered. Things she had thought she had forgotten now welled up from her memories to haunt her.

After a long time, she heard Legolas enter his room across the hall from hers. One by one, her friends had probably retired to their rooms, and slept. _Will this day never end?_ she thought, but regretted it when she remembered that Legolas would be dead before the next sunrise. Sariel listened to the sounds until sleep finally took her, ruled by fitful dreams.

* * *

She got up slowly and fastened a black cloth over her face and head, leaving only her blue eyes visible. Thus half-veiled and hooded, she would not be immediately recognizable. She crept out her window with her saddlebags and silently entered the stables, leaving them with Myste. Two Elves were on guard but she took care of them easily, forcing them to inhale a noxious combination that would leave them asleep until morning at the earliest.

Sariel then returned to her room and retrieved the letter she had written along with the blood-stained rose that Arwen had given her. She went to Arwen's room, far from the rooms of any of Sariel's companions for Arwen had arrived at Lothlórien long before they did. Examining the lock on the door, Sariel took out her set of lockpicks and quickly opened it.

Arwen slept in the bed. Sariel allowed herself to look on the face of her friend, shadowed by the moonlight, one more time. She memorized the black hair, the glowingly fair skin and arching eyebrows, and Sariel knew that for all her unearthly appearance, Arwen's true beauty could not be seen.

Sariel left the letter on Arwen's table, gently laying the rose on top of it. At night, the deep red of the rose turned almost black.

"Be safe, my true friend," she whispered. "Be strong. I wish you what happiness left in this world, you who have been made for Hope."

She left the room as silently as she had come, a shadow of death. Outside the room, Sariel paused at the sight of another closed door. Aragorn's room, she guessed, inhabited now only by memories.

"_E__len s__í__la l__ú__menn omentilmo,"_ she whispered in the language of the High Elves, thinking of Arwen for the last time, but in her heart she knew that while a star shone on the hour of their meeting, none would shine for this hour on which they would part.

* * *

Arwen woke, restless. She could not sleep for more than an hour at a time without haunting nightmares of Aragorn invading her sleep. She made her way through the halls to Sariel's room and knocked, surprised when she found the door unlocked. She looked inside only to find that the room was austere, with no sign of anyone ever inhabiting it. There was no sign of Sariel, so she returned to her own room, seeing what she had overlooked before. Her room had been locked.

Arwen picked up the rose and frowned. It looked like the one that she had given to Sariel but it was the wrong color. The rose she had given had been white, but this one was a deep, dark red. Just looking at the perfect beauty and the color of the rose made her shiver.

With trepidation, Arwen turned to the letter. The seal looked vaguely familiar and she thought she had seen it somewhere before. Searching her memory, Arwen thought of the letter she had seen Haldir reading only a few days ago. It had been drawn on the paper in black ink. Suddenly, she realized why it was so familiar. The harp that Sariel had turned away from, distraught—the same design had been carved onto the wood. The rose symbol looked like family crest. _Sariel's? _

She read the long letter with growing fear. She had read only the first two pages when she stopped and skimmed the rest. Her heart racing, Arwen dropped it onto the table, opened the door and ran toward Legolas's rooms, all else forgotten.

* * *

He was so beautiful, she mused. Sariel had entered the unlocked room and had looked at him, his skin alabaster in the moonlight, yet glowing as if with a hint of pale gold. Most Elves slept with their eyes open, but his eyes were closed now, perhaps an effect of the _narendil _powder in his wine. His shoulder was still lightly bandaged from his arrow wound. He looked so peaceful asleep; for all his age, he was like an innocent youth trusting that he was safe in Lórien. He had left his room unlocked.

He was so graceful during the day but by night he slept with a child's abandon, a fine silken fall of golden hair loose and framing the fine features of his face, lithe body and limbs slack in rest. He was ethereal, a true representative of their race—steadfast and fair beyond fear.

The moonlight turned everything silver, grey, and black. Sariel drew his covers back to reveal his upper body. He was clothed in a thin tunic colored pale grey in the shadowy light.

Dreamflower, Lothlórien's name in the common tongue. Laurelindórinan it was called in Sariel's father's time, the Land of the Valley of Singing Gold, but it was now known as Dreamflower. Sariel choked down a sob. Her dream of freedom was stained with blood, but it was not just her dream, but her mother's and sister's as well, and she owed them a chance at happiness.

Sariel drew the stiletto from its plain black sheath and stood there for a long time, the few tears that had spilled from her eyes drying on her cheeks as she calmed herself. Her family's freedom and happiness was close and she was thinking too much. She could not question whether she lacked the courage to kill him.

She hated the comfortable weight of the silver stiletto, the familiar way it fitted to her hand. The handle was of a thin, sinuous engraved dragon with two beady onyx eyes. The slim blade itself had etched Elvish letters and she did not need to read the flowing script to know what they spelled out. Life, Death, the letters intertwined_._ She looked at it, and then hesitantly raised it above his chest, point above his heart.

For a moment, she imagined going to Galadriel and telling her everything about Belderon and his plans and his tyranny. Galadriel had such great power, she could help Sariel—but would she? Sariel had killed before, many times. Would the Lady of the Golden Wood solve her problem by helping her, or by killing her and eliminating a threat in the form of an experienced assassin? Lorianiel and Lessena where wholly innocent, yet it was possible that Galadriel would not trust Sariel's word. All of the time she had spent here had been nothing but a lie, after all. Even if the Lady would help, what might Belderon do to her family if Galadriel could not help them in time?

Sariel fought to keep herself confident, but violent emotions swept through her. She stared at the stiletto as if it were another hand holding it, seeing it as if she had just woken to reality. _What am I doing? How can I be doing this? _

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, focusing on the memory of her mother's listless eyes and Lessena's pale, tear streaked face, and then opened her eyes and brought the stiletto down.

* * *

Bright sapphire eyes stared at her, shocked, taking in her masked face and the dagger swiftly descending upon him. Sariel cried out, startled by Legolas' awakening, seeing puzzlement and then recognition fill his eyes. He gazed at her with no fear for his life, showing only betrayal and shock. She felt the narrow blade meet resistance, but it seemed to drive itself into his chest effortlessly, as it was designed to do.

Dimly, she heard Legolas cry out in pain and she stared uncomprehendingly as his right hand moved in a blur to where it was buried in his flesh. He pulled it out savagely, tossing it to the side, away from where Sariel stood, frozen.

_How? The narendil seeds…he should be sleeping…_

Her right hand automatically pulled the string that released her knife from its sheath on her arm. The knife dropped down into her hand hilt first, her fingers turning it and curling numbly around its handle. In one fluid motion, Legolas sat up and grabbed Sariel by the wrist with an impossible strength, callously twisting back and breaking her wrist with a sickening sound. The knife fell to the floor.

Sariel screamed with pain and tried to twist away, but his hand had shifted to grip her forearm. She struggled like an animal caught in a trap, beating at him with her other hand. She had been trained all her life in hand to hand combat, yet her body had failed her the one time in her life she needed it most. Tears slid from her eyes to soak the black cloth still covering her face; she felt as if she couldn't breathe through the sodden cloth. Suddenly furious with her helplessness and mad with pain, she reached out with her uninjured hand and ripped it from her face.

She saw Legolas and yet she didn't, her mind filled with images of her mother and sister in that cold, lifeless room. The pain was overwhelming, but Belderon had put her through worse than a broken wrist before. It was the swirling, frenzied mix of feelings that left her reeling, shattered. Happiness and relief flared at the knowledge that she had failed, that Legolas was still alive and holding her arm in an iron grip. At the same time she was sick with the anguish of knowing what her failure meant for Lorianiel and Lessena.

All too soon, Sariel stopped struggling and went limp, almost falling onto Legolas and the bed. As if from far away, she heard him gasping for breath and somewhere in her haze of pain and emotions she wondered if the stiletto had caused a mortal wound or if it had punctured a lung, perhaps.

Probably not, she decided. The ruthless, logical part of her had not completely disappeared, after all, even when everything was deteriorating around her. _I did not pierce the heart…too much above…_

Someone opened the door and bright light streamed in as Legolas roughly bound her feet together with coarse rope he had found in her own bag. Sariel did not resist, listening to the sound of his heavy breathing, proof that he was alive. But there was so much pain in the sound that it added to her own. Arwen entered and went first to Legolas and then Sariel. More Elves flooded into the room. At first, they did not seem to realize what had occurred and questions were snapped out. Sariel struggled to hear Legolas over the commotion. Two healers put him on the bed.

Blood was everywhere. It was sticky and vicious, mostly still warm. She heard her own heartbeat pounding and thought it was his.

Sariel saw their faces as one by one they took in her black clothes, the stiletto and knife on the floor, and Legolas's wound. Their concerned faces froze and even Arwen's hardened into a cold mask of condemnation, yet none of it affected her as deeply as seeing the hate and loathing in Legolas's eyes.

She held her broken wrist close to her, curled up into a protective ball around it, and lay on the floor. Arwen picked up the stiletto, its dragon eyes still gleaming malevolently at her. She looked at Sariel but did not speak. There was a silence in the room only broken by the speech of the Elves tending to Legolas. She could not hear his breathing.

Those around Sariel formed an uneasy circle and all she saw were unfathomable eyes staring at her. She closed her eyes and then opened again, thinking for a moment she thought that she saw the youthful face and old eyes of Galadriel.

Then she spiraled down into black, unfeeling oblivion.

* * *

She woke sometimes, but it was always dark and cold. She heard voices, but she did not know if they were real or if they just existed in her mind. She realized that Legolas had never said a word to her in all that time, but none were needed when he looked at her with those pure blue eyes filled with betrayal.

In those long hours of darkness, she had come to the conclusion that she was in a cell of some kind by groping in the dark with her unscathed left hand, before the pain could no longer be ignored, before the dark void overcame her yet again. Strangely, she was numb and tearless, though it would have helped to be able to cry. Her hand slipped into her pocket and clenched around the wooden wax seal of her house.

_You have failed! Twelve centuries of training for this moment, and you have failed me!_ The voice thundered into her head, filled with maniacal rage. Then the anger disappeared from his voice and he laughed into her mind, a sadistic sound.

_Feel the life leave your mother, my pet. I will make your blood sing to your mother. Feel her fade every hour and hear her screams. And when she is gone…you will feel pretty Lessena, the so naïve and sweet Lessena watching her mother die, knowing that you killed her._

_This is the price of failure. _

Something shifted in her blood, as if she were suddenly two people, not one. She breathed with difficulty and it was her mother breathing, too. She felt the will to live leave her little by little, heard Lorianiel begging and weeping, and screams were wrenched from her throat. She was her mother, her mother was her. On and on the shrieks burst from her until her throat felt as if it had been torn out, and finally the door to her cell opened.

Bright light hit her, who had been so long in darkness. She screamed again, or made a sound that would have been a scream but was only a ghastly cry. She turned her face from the light, tried to call up the dark oblivion again, tried to escape from the pain, but a rough hand cut the rope binding her ankles, grabbed her, and she was pulled to her feet and dragged halfway out the door of the cell.

"The Lady and the others wish to talk to you, and you shall either go willingly or not." There was a bitter laugh. "After what you have done, you should be glad if I am merciful enough to take your life right now."

She struggled futilely, more out of instinct and habit than of a will to get away, kicking out the way she had been taught and catching the blurred shape in the shin. Her guard stopped and she fell to the ground, using the last remains of her feeble strength to hook her foot in the back of his knee. The Elf stumbled and fell on both knees, cursing at her as she got up. He pushed himself up with one arm and pulled hard on her arm to lever himself up.

She tried to ask, the so important question, but her throat was dry and everything tasted of blood.

"Is he…still alive?" she rasped out.

The guard laughed sneeringly at her and did not answer. "You deserve everything they will do to you. What will happen to you, do you wonder?"

The words cut into her heart, but it was already numb, and part of her accepted his harsh judgment, knowing it was true. He had to be alive. If he were not, she would take her life, or perhaps simply wait. Lorianiel was dying, so she was dying as well. There was nothing left.

She could not even remember her own name. She did not want to remember. He had said it in his voice once.

"Well, conscious or not, you shall appear before the Lady as is fitting."

Her unsteady legs collapsed; the Elf yanked her by the arm again and she knew nothing more but the pain as her broken wrist hit the wall.

* * *

A/N: Please review! 'Praise from the praise-worthy is beyond all rewards' - Faramir, _The Two Towers._

_Finalized July 2008 _


	7. Shadows of the Past

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

Disclaimer: Written with all respect to J.R.R. Tolkien, the Tolkien Estate, and all associates thereof. No copyright infringement intended.

Translations:

_brithil eredh_: pearl-seed

_athelas_: King's foil

_Elbernín (ael-ber-nín)_: promise to the lake of tears

_Giladuial_: nightstar; "star" and the evening, time of star-opening, "second twilight"

_Brethilas_: silver birch leaf

**

* * *

Chapter 7: Shadows of the Past**

* * *

He was listless, so he stirred. Legolas tried to sit up only to fall back to the bed, pale and gasping as pain shot through his chest.

"Stop! Legolas, calm down!" Arwen exclaimed, rousing from where she had been sitting, half-asleep. "Here, drink this."

She handed him a cup filled with black liquid. Even from the distance, he could smell the acrid, pungent herbs that made up the brew. Legolas sighed, but as with most Elves he had been taught rudimentary lessons in healing and knew better than to be a difficult patient. He glanced up at Arwen, who was standing with her arms crossed. Looking at her formidable glower, he forced himself to drink, draining half the cup quickly. Just moments later, he choked and coughed, flares of pain taking away his breath.

"What was _that_?" he demanded weakly. "It was no normal healer's brew, so don't pretend otherwise."

"_That_, as you named it, was three times the normal dosage. The healer said it would wake you up at bit. It's good for you." Arwen looked almost smug.

"Wake me up a _bit_!" Legolas looked with extreme disfavor at the dark liquid remaining in the cup. "At least you could have sweetened it!"

"_Brithil eredh_ tinctures lose their potency if mixed with sugar or honey," she sweetly informed him. "Drink the rest."

Secretly, Arwen was relieved that he was showing some signs of life. He had been uncommunicative for the last six days, ever since the attempt on his life. Arwen had not pressed him, understanding that he needed some privacy after what had happened. She regretted encouraging, however slightly, a friendship that had ended in betrayal. Worse yet, after having witnessed his anguish, Arwen was not sure that the feelings between the two had not extended beyond friendship.

Legolas muttered some more but yielded when Arwen narrowed her eyes at him, the worry in her expression compelling him more than her order. He lay back on the pillows after drinking, breathing shallowly. The sedative was more palliative than he wanted to admit; already the pain was fading a little. But with the relaxing of his inhibitions came unwelcome thoughts.

_Sariel…_ His mind shied away from the name, but it was impossible to keep her from his thoughts, especially now that he was physically healing. Arwen had been almost constantly by Legolas's side for so many days and even now there was a cot next to his bed for her to sleep in. At first, everyone had believed that he would die from the injury since nothing even the most skilled healers did had stopped the bleeding. They could only guess that it was some side effect of the drug Sariel had drugged him with, which had not functioned as she had planned. Thinking of how she had calmly planned to murder him in his sleep made his stomach twist.

He still did not know what had caused him to wake right at that moment. It had saved his life, however. He kept on remembering the exact scene, the exact moment his eyes had opened to see her hand raised above him, clutching a stiletto. Somehow, he had known instantly that it was Sariel even before he looked up at his assailant and saw the dark blue eyes, the only part of her face visible. Somehow, the shock had not lessened even after six days.

"Legolas," Arwen's voice called, jolting him back to the present. He looked up to see her staring at him concernedly. _A fine pair we make_, he thought, _two broken Elves._

"I am sorry," he mumbled, turning his face away so she would not see his tears. Pride made him turn his sorrow into anger. "Forgive me. I know I have been…difficult…"

"Sorry for what, Legolas? For being such an awful patient and not drinking your medicine?" A smile curved Arwen's mouth; she was clearly trying to lighten his mood. In some ways, they had been drawn even closer together, but each did not forget that the other was still suffering. Now, there was only a heavy, uncomfortable silence as both tried too hard to pretend nothing was wrong.

"She deceived everyone," Arwen said at last, a little bitterness leaking into her words. She had focused on Sariel's betrayal of Legolas in part so that she would not have to face how deeply she had been hurt herself. "It is not your fault. She fooled each of us into caring for her by letting us think that she cared for us in return."

"Is it not my fault, Arwen? I brought her into Lothlórien despite Aragorn's misgivings. Did I ever tell you? He thought ill of her, at first, but we all persuaded him. Yet it was she who knelt at his side as he died and took his last words."

The expression on his friend's face made Legolas regret his words for a moment, but it was too late to stop. The words had been festering inside him as he lay and he could not stop wondering if Sariel had had a part in Aragorn's death as well. He had led a war against evil itself, he had survived to rebuild his kingdom. It had seemed impossible that he would be taken from them so abruptly—as impossible as it was to think that Sariel had tried to kill him.

"She wanted to get close to us. She wanted to get close to me. After all, the closer she got, the easier for her to kill, is it not?" he said, fighting the tide of emotions that threatened to take away his voice.

"Legolas, don't—" Arwen placed a hand on his shoulder and he shrugged it off, ignoring the brief, intense pain the movement caused.

"You called her secretive, and I was angry because of it. I asked you to be her friend, and she may well have…she may well have killed your husband." Legolas closed his eyes, seeing again how she had not resisted when he had kissed her. Had she been hiding her disgust until she had been unable to maintain her act, pushing him away?

He had not told Arwen about any of it, nor would he tell her even now.

"Legolas…" Arwen said helplessly. "I do not believe it. She held me close when I wept for Aragorn; I felt her heart beat next to mine. I do not believe she could have killed him." Her voice trembled at the end, but when Legolas looked at her, her tear-filled grey eyes were steady in their conviction.

"She would have killed _me_, Arwen," he said, before his throat closed up and he could say no more. He turned his face away from her abruptly, the movement causing a few locks of his hair to fall across his cheek.

Arwen reached out to tenderly collect them, smoothing them behind his ear. He did not have his habitual braids of hair and she deftly braided them now, hands gentle. When she was done, she let her hands delicately trace the angle of his jaw, and he finally turned his head toward her again, his eyes still closed. She braided the other side, making no comment about the liquid trails on his face, well aware that countless tears had silently soaked into the white pillow over the last few days. He held onto some measure of pride as if it were the only thing left to him.

Despite that, Arwen's heart ached for her friend. The refined bones of his face could not fully hide the changes. He looked awful and beautiful in a way that made her breath catch with conflicting emotions. There were dark hollows under his eyes and the slenderness of his Elven body now merely made him seem too thin, almost fragile. The natural gold of his hair had faded into a slightly paler shade. Some of it was from his wound, but other things were not. He suffered from insomnia to the point that Arwen had stayed up with him for three nights in a row, talking until her voice was hoarse as she sought to lull him to sleep with recollections of past times. He had no appetite, though his body, wounded as it was, needed it to heal.

_It has only been six days_, Arwen thought. _And now that he thinks that even Aragorn's death…_ She caught her breath, unwilling to consider it. The healers said there was nothing to be done; his troubles were of the heart and soul. Legolas's body was also beginning to heal itself, though it would take weeks before he recovered fully and the speed was dependent on his will to live.

Different Elves had visited him every day, bringing them their well wishes and sympathy, but Legolas had been withdrawn and bitter. Arwen had had to politely but firmly usher them out of the room when they lingered too long. They meant well, but Legolas was already far to heartsore to deal with visitors. She sighed, but the corners of her mouth tilted upward at the thought of some of the gifts he had been given, including a new dark green cloak cleverly sewn with intricate designs, and a book of short classic poetry which contained a famous poem which both poked fun at the follies of romance and dared the reader to 'sail the giddy sea' of love. However inappropriate a time it was, it seemed that Legolas still had his admirers.

It was just as well that she was the one changing his _athelas _compress and bandaging. The wound looked innocuously small, as if it was only a small cut, but the stiletto had pierced deeply. Legolas could not stifle a small hiss of pain and Arwen dropped a light kiss on his brow when she was done.

"I know this is trying time for you," she said in a low voice. "I am sorry, Legolas." It seemed such an insufficient phrase to say to him after all he had been through.

"Arwen, don't apologize. You have only ever loved me and been my friend. You are not the one who has betrayed us all."

His eyes seemed to look past her, however, and Arwen could only imagine what he was thinking. Perhaps he was remembering again: her brilliant eyes and her laugh, her swift, fluid movements, the way she had actually brightened hearts after Aragorn's death. Perhaps he was remembering the way she had looked after she had won the archery competition, the light that shone in her eyes—it had been too pure to be false.

"Is she pleased now, do you think?"

Legolas's question had been so faint that Arwen had barely caught it. She was not sure whether he was asking her or thinking aloud, but he continued. "Cold-hearted, callous assassin that she is, do you think she is pleased now?"

Arwen hesitated at the ice in his words, about to agree with him. She found that she could not. "No," she said at last. "I don't think she could be."

Legolas made no reply. Arwen had not told him where she had been taken, only that Galadriel had dealt with her. The only question was why she had tried. _Why did you do it, Sariel? _It was the only thing he wanted to ask her, the only time he ever wanted to use her name again. Not whether she had anything to do with Aragorn's death, not whether she had felt anything for him at all.

Sometime while he had been thinking, Arwen had quietly slipped out. She now came back in with Haldir.

"Galadriel has summoned a council," Haldir said somberly. "You have not yet recovered, but your presence is necessary. I will carry you." His smile at the last, a poor attempt at finding the humor in the situation, did not quite reach his eyes. He made a move as if to help Legolas, who stopped him with a look.

"I will not be carried as if I were an invalid." Though he was weak enough to possibly need it, he did not want her to see how close she came to succeeding.

Haldir hesitated, but Legolas's gaze was adamant. "Just help me rise, Haldir."

Arwen and Haldir both helped him up, and then Legolas draped his arm around Haldir's shoulders. Arwen supported Legolas on the other side and they slowly made way to the council. Legolas's face was dangerously pale by the time they finally got to their destination, although Arwen did not think it was entirely due to the pain.

_Why did you do it, Sariel? _

* * *

Something was shaking her roughly, forcing her out of the blessed peace she could only find in the darkness. Even as her senses awakened, she could feel the phantom, steady beating of her mother's heart conflicting with her own. She could feel Lorianiel's life being slowly drawn from her as if each moment was a drop of blood draining from her body. The white-hot pains from her untreated broken wrist had not abated over the last six days but even that seemed to be disconnected to her. Even the possibility of a little water could not stir her.

A particularly hard jerk and release made her head knock hard onto the floor and Sariel became fully conscious. She was lying on an uneven, cool surface; her head was turned to the side and her cheek pressed against it. Moaning, she turned onto her back, but did not try to otherwise move. Her eyes were still closed, but she could feel the light on them.

"Wake up," a voice ordered. The shaking increased, causing her cheek to crash painfully against the stone floor. She tried to wait it out but it was relentless. She inhaled and the air seemed fresh, clean. There were sounds around her that could not have been from even her most vivid hallucinations. Sariel blearily opened her eyes, tears almost immediately forming because of the bright light.

She was outside underneath the great trees of Lórien, in the middle of a circular place with stone seats where the Elves sat as if they were a jury and she the defendant. She twisted around slightly only to see more dispassionate eyes, but she forced down her fear. Sariel had read about the Council of Elrond in the histories of the War of the Ring, and she slowly realized that this place was twin to that in Rivendell. _Galadriel must have used Elrond's idea,_ she thought tiredly. _Or perhaps Imladris was built after L__ór__ien?_ Either way, she was acutely aware of the Elves' perusal of her, and she did not much care for the hostile stares from all directions now.

She struggled and finally stood up proudly. It was awkward getting up using only her uninjured right hand and she was unsteady on her feet. Her head spun, but Sariel had endured many kinds of torment from Belderon, and she felt no panic now, only a calm acceptance. A glowing, golden-white being was gliding to her, and she straightened her posture defiantly, determined not to be cowed. However, the Elf beside her forced her to her knees. The light seemed to get closer and she finally saw that it was Galadriel, radiant and scintillating with the unsuppressed glow that Elves had around them. She wore her power like a cloak around her, the power that had been concealed before.

Galadriel's eyes blazed and she seemed to be an entirely different person from the Lady that Sariel had known before. Sariel felt the first trickle of fear down her spine, but she did not look away. The Lady of the Wood was wearing a pristine white robe, the hood laid back to reveal shining golden hair beneath. Even though she had never seen Galadriel like this, Sariel understood that the one before her was the true heart and ruler of the Elven stronghold. This was a Queen, once Bearer of one of the Rings of Power, an Elf whose very blood ran with power and enchantment.

However, even as she watched, the light was mitigated as Galadriel walked closer. It was only then that she saw that Lord Celeborn was noticeably absent from her side. Sariel was already faint, but Galadriel's presence seemed to sap her strength. It took her a moment to realize that the conflict that raged in her body was worse than ever, Lorianiel's heart racing faster and faster as Galadriel approached, its phantom presence beating strangely in Sariel's breast and overpowering her.

There was joy in Lorianiel, joy strengthening her dying heart, and Sariel could not breathe for all the joy. Did her own mother hate her so, to be glad of the hour of her punishment?

Sariel finally tore her eyes from the muted, but still glowing figure before her. A dark satisfaction seemed to shine from the eyes of the Elves ringed around her. She saw each of her companions and friends she had met in Lórien; even Eirien, her maid, was present outside of the immediate circle of lords and ladies. She realized that she was in the middle of circles upon circles of Elves, all gathered like silent witnesses to an execution. Perhaps that would be her fate.

Gimli and Boromir did not meet her eyes but their disdainful, rigid stance made their thoughts known to her. Without a word, they had condemned her for what she was: an assassin. _They do not know even why, _Sariel thought, but there was no strength in her left for anger. _It makes no difference to them. Why would it make any difference to anyone here, except I? They only know that I have tried to kill their friend, and that is reason enough for all of them. _

Her gaze shifted to Arwen more painfully. Arwen met her gaze unflinchingly, bitterness as well as derision in her eyes. The grey color of her irises, once lovely and silver-bright, was as hard and as ruthless as steel now. The Elf so similar to Sariel in coloring and appearance seemed strong and beautiful, as if she were a statue of justice. Sariel looked away, her heart rising to her throat. Standing before her was not the Arwen that she had loved, the friend she had embraced in pain and happiness, but a princess that was cool and aloof, above mere things such as betrayal and anguish.

Finally, Sariel turned to look at Legolas, seeing all the changes on his lithe and slender body, taking in the way shadows seemed to sculpt his face even more, into a thing of beauty but also of pain. There was no brightness at all to his being. Her eyes saw all of it and none of it; she was sure of only one thing.

He was alive. He was _alive_.

Nothing else mattered. Dizzy with the emotions rushing through her, Sariel dropped unwillingly to her knees, the motion accompanied by whispers among the Elves, sounding like the rustle of tree leaves. The mutters increased when a small motion caught Sariel's eye. She looked up to see Arwen supporting Legolas, who had paled even more, until he was a nearly ghastly white. He looked as if he could not stand either.

His fierce, critical gaze burned her until she felt as if all her limbs had turned to water. She was already on her knees, but somehow she felt as if she fell and fell again, her soul stripped away before his eyes. His unspoken accusation pierced her as if she had turned her own stiletto against herself. But it was the cold hatred in his eyes that made her body revolt with sudden sickness; Sariel covered her mouth with her hand and retched, but she had not eaten for six days. The dry convulsions racked her body as if it were trying to split itself apart.

It seemed a long time before she was aware of her surroundings again. She lay curled on her side but there was a shallow bowl of water next to her, made of metal clean and bright. _So it comes to this_, she thought. _I have failed both my family and myself; I have destroyed everything I dreamed. I will never avenge my father, never see Belderon dead beneath the point of my sword. I lost my heart and now I have lost everything. Was I so wrong to ever dream?_

"Drink," she heard as if from all around her. "You will need to speak."

So it was not kindness but necessity. The nausea had faded but Sariel remembered all too clearly the fragmented moments of her imprisonment. She knew that she had licked at the same bowl of water as if she were a dog, knew that she had begged to die, at times. Now, she lifted herself a little and reached out with her uninjured hand. The metal seemed smooth and cool in her hand. She raised the bowl to drink and saw her reflection in the silver and water.

For days her broken wrist had been untended and she had been left in the dark of the prison cell. Her face was mottled with ugly bruises and livid welts and her pale skin was smudged with grime. Her long black hair had turned into a mass of tangles and dirty knots, damp from the slime of the cell.

Looking down at the bowl, Sariel closed her eyes and drank. The water wetted parched lips and flowed down a throat from which only screams and animalistic sounds had issued for several days. She had known only love from Lórien; she had not known that though each Elf was capable of great love, they were capable of terrible hate as well.

The Elves looked not unlike Men and so the Men believed that they were similar, placing too much confidence in appearances. But the Elvish race was a thing apart, their emotions and thoughts different and difficult to comprehend. They had been so secretive and hidden that some Men had talked of witches and sorceresses, of Galadriel who lured Men into her woods and enchanted them with her gaze so that they withered away, dying though they knew it not. Skills and powers of the Elves were magic to others, the healing hands of Elrond and the Mirror of Galadriel both terrifying and tempting.

In the end, Sariel lay surrounded by Elves, and understood why Belderon had created her. There was darkness as well as light in every heart. The greater the civilization, the more that baser nature was hidden, the more it was fought. But it was there all the same. For all that the Elves understood the value of life, did they hesitate to kill when it was necessary?

She understood both why Belderon had created her and now _how_ she could have been created. She understood, even, that Lorianiel and Lessena, whom she had always thought to be pure, were complicit all the same in the deaths she had caused. They had not killed, but they had not stopped her from killing for them. Lessena would have rather died than become an assassin, yet Sariel's will was stronger, her heart both darker and lighter than her sister's, and so she had been able to transform. What had transformed Belderon, turning him against his own race?

_Because he was once one of them_, Sariel thought, and did not hesitate when she realized that she no longer included herself. _He suffered once at their hands and he understood the hypocrisy, the naivety, of willfully seeing only the capacity for good. He does it all because he proves through his very existence that even in the pure hearts of Elves, monsters still lurk. _

"And he longs to be one of them again, and can never be," she whispered softly to herself, covering her face with his hands. "So he destroys himself to show that he does not long for what he cannot have."

Other hands closed around Sariel's wrists and jerked her hands away from her face. Pain shot through her wrist, but her guard forced her back to a kneeling position. She saw shimmering, floating white before her and looked up to see the Lady of the Golden Wood. Galadriel's eyes bored into hers until Sariel tried to look away, only to have her guard grab her chin and force her to look at the white figure again.

"_Mor maeg, mor utulie, mor dar,_" Galadriel intoned softly, and every being present felt the chilling creep of her words. _The darkness is piercing, the darkness has come, the darkness remains._

"Sariel of Nenuial. You drugged and attempted to murder Legolas, prince of Mirkwood and heir to King Thranduil from the house of Oropher. For this crime, you will be executed."

Galadriel's pronouncement had not come as a surprise to Sariel or anyone else. There was only silence at her words. Sariel wanted to look at Legolas but kept her eyes fixed on the white gown.

"However, you have been brought here today to answer our questions before we pass full judgment upon you. Your death can be painless and swift, or you may rot in your prison cell, whiling away the days until your soul breaks entirely. You have not acted alone in this. Who is your master?"

Sariel did not answer or move to indicate that she had even heard the question. Dreamily, she let Galadriel's words play in her ears, wondering if the Lady had ever experienced such perfect despair that nothing else mattered. The threats were ridiculous to one such as her. She had been dying in Belderon's imprisonment for centuries. The Elves around the circle murmured at her temerity when she remained quiet.

"_Silence_," Galadriel ordered. "If the assassin will not answer, punishment will give her some incentive to speak. Elbernín."

It was the name of the guard who had dragged Sariel from the cell and had forced her to kneel. He came forward now with a whip in his hand. The back of her clothes were cut away so that her bruise-mottled skin was exposed; they were not injuries Sariel had gotten in the fight with Legolas, but ones she had caused herself in her cell, when she had been mad.

At the sight of the whip, the Elves stirred again at the sudden, unusual evidence of brutality, and yet none made move to stop their Lady. Sariel raised her head and looked at the thirty or so Elves present in the first, immediate circle around her, and laughed. The sound was wild. Their implacable expressions changed to disbelief and then fury.

Elbernín brought the lash down on Sariel's back relentlessly. One, two, three, four lashes blazed across Sariel's back and she bit her tongue to keep from crying out. Each stroke cut open the skin on her back, biting deeply into her flesh, and after the first white-hot stinging, she could feel warm liquid trickle down her sides.

"You _will _speak! Who is your master?"

She did not reply. Her mother and sister were still in his grasp. She had failed them already but no more_. I shall not fail again,_ she chanted to herself. _I shall not fail you again. _

"Double your strokes, Elbernín."

Again the crack of the lash sounded out, seeming to Sariel far louder than it could have really been, and the blows fell faster and harder. The lash descended—five times, six times, seven. Through the blur of agony Sariel heard Galadriel's voice again, utterly relentless. "Who is your master?"

She bit down on her lip until blood filled her mouth and trickled down her chin to keep from answering.

"Double the strokes," the command was uttered coolly.

At this, she could not stop herself from gasping in protest. Before she had time to draw breath again, the lash laid open her skin and she bit back a whimpering cry. She heard the whistle as the next stroke cut through the air and tried to brace herself for it, but the lash was living fire and she could only try to twist away. Everywhere around her the faces looked on and she was glad that they were a blur in her mind, glad she could not pick out any of them.

Elbernín was skilled and unhesitating, as if he had practiced whipping the flesh of Elves so many times that he knew the exact amount of force he needed. Unable to bear it, Sariel screamed, the sound shocking and shrill. The Elves moved, then, but she was beyond caring, that first sound unleashing something within. She screamed again when the whip descended and some part of her still hoped that a voice would call out for it to stop, that someone would intervene.

She thought of her mother and sister, trying to distract herself, but the memories were not warm enough, alive enough. She thought of Arwen and Aragorn, and of bravely accepting death out of love, and it was not enough. She could not be so brave. She did not know that kind of love.

"So be it," Galadriel said, voice cutting through all of Sariel's pitiful attempts. Elbernín drew his lash back but it didn't descend again. Sariel sobbed on the floor but once again, Elbernín forced her head up so that she looked into Galadriel's eyes.

"I shall draw her memories out." Galadriel's words were even, but it was clear that she was infuriated. There was a dark undercurrent in her voice that was savage and filled with surety.

Sariel breathed shallowly, her heart and Lorianiel's borrowed heart both beating frantically, and Galadriel's eyes had never been so clear or deep. She felt as if she were far away from herself, lost. She saw dark blue eyes, frightened and wide, gazing into her own, and then suddenly Sariel realized that she was looking at herself—through Galadriel's eyes.

She screamed, or tried to, but the sound could not be drawn out of a throat that was not hers, and all her thoughts were open, all her life given to another. Galadriel looked into her mind as if looking into her own, and Sariel gazed back, caught.

"Ah, I have found it!" Galadriel cried out. "A locked door. She has suppressed her own memories so much that she cannot even remember her own past clearly. It is a thing of rusted blood and horror, yet I shall open it!"

Triumphant, Galadriel released Sariel, and suddenly she was kneeling again in her own body, looking into Galadriel's lighter blue eyes, but it was only moments before the floor under her spiraled away, as if she were forever falling into it or eternally floating above it.

Her eyes opened wide, the fear in her like the edge of a fine blade pressed against her bare heart, and her mouth opened to scream at what others could not see. She felt herself reliving it, the whole terrible ordeal that she had locked away two millennia agowhen, as a terrified and hurt child, her body had tried to heal by closing off her mind.

Sariel finally spoke, the words spilling out harshly, as if not even in her own voice.

* * *

"It was my last birthday, the last one that our kind counts. The last day of childhood. Father had left the tree and I did as well, speaking to Vanidar and Haldir in the woods, leaving Mother and Lessena alone. Our home was far away from everyone else's, on the fringes of Lórien. I had promised Mother that we would come back to the tree at midday to eat, so I said farewell to my friends and started back.

"Father joined me and we were walking back when he came, riding a gigantic black steed with wild, rolling eyes and pounding hooves. When he drew near, I saw that the horse had colorless eyes and I was frightened. I turned to Father and he hugged me, but he was still looking at the stranger. The Elf astride the beast called out something to Father and laughed.

"Father released me and told me to go find Haldir, the tone of his voice warning me not to argue. I did not want to leave him, but he commanded me, and I had started to go when I heard the clash of swords. Father had drawn Aurielen and he never drew the sword unless he meant to kill. I turned to see him engaged in battle with the stranger and I started running back, crying out to Father. Father turned to look at me and _he _plunged his sword into Father's chest. I ran to him as the Elf stepped back, and Father spoke to me. He gave me Aurielen and told me to run, but I would not leave him. I watched him die before my eyes and did nothing.

"When I began screaming, the Elf who had killed my father grabbed me and started off towards our tree, seeming to know exactly where to go. I gripped Aurielen, but it was too heavy, I could not raise it. He let me hold it, laughing at my efforts, and tied my hands together so that I clutched the hilt between them. I watched him overcome Mother and Lessena and I could do nothing. He made us watch as he burned the tree—our home, our lives.

"He took us away. I knew that someone would see the smoke and come, just as I knew that it was too late to save the tree and that I would never see Father again. The Elf had Mother and Lessena tied to another strange steed, and he held me on the withers of the black beast. He told me that he was Belderon and that he was my new master, and then took us to Nenuial, though I did not know until he told us.

"Mother and Lessena never woke up once during the entire journey, over a month long, and I would have thought them dead except that it seemed some foul sleep had been laid upon them. The black beast ran as no horse could and Belderon fed it raw meat. Lessena had been a child in every sense of the word, then. When she woke, she hardly seemed to understand that Father was dead.

Belderon's fortress was carved out of stone, a palace in the dark, damp heart of a mountain. It was unnatural in its existence, a home once to some great beast, perhaps kin to the dragons, and it spread corruption to the woods and lands around it, tainting everything.

"At first I fought and I cried. I wanted to kill myself. I did not see Lessena or Mother and I thought Belderon had finally had them killed, but he told me otherwise. He brought me to see them, locked in a cold, grey room, where they even now dwell. I could not understand why I was separated from them, why Belderon had singled me out and destroyed my family. We had done him no harm; I had never seen him until that day. He whispered lies into my ears, telling me he was my father, but young as I was, innocent as I was, the web of lies and spells he wove around me did not cloud my mind as he thought it would. I remembered, though I did not want to.

"Then he told me he was my uncle, and I wept to learn that he was my father's brother, that I was kin to him. I did not know whether to believe him at first, but gradually, I accepted it. Belderon had killed my father because he had felt wronged by his brother. It was not a random attack.

"Over time he grew careless and left the doors unlocked. I tried to escape but he caught me again and again. I resorted to finding the sharpest object that I could and tried to kill him, and when I failed, I tried to kill myself. He was always there and ready to stop me. I grew older and my body matured. My mother and sister were never let out of the room, but Belderon let me into the woods as I pleased, always sensing when I tried to rebel. I grew to cherish those limited tastes of freedom, and a lifetime passed while we existed, unchanging and our spirits slowly dying.

"It was not until a hundred years later that he began to train me. I did not want to learn at first, but I realized that for revenge, I would need to know how to use weapons. He offered me a contract. I would become his tool, his weapon, and with my deeds I would be able to better the situation for my mother and sister. I accepted, and turned my body into a weapon. He trained me himself, until I was nearly as lethal as he was, but although I could sometimes match him, I was never able to surpass him.

"He no longer hid what he did to collect blood power. I knew that he was an Elf, but he had skills that no Elf could have had. I grew used to hearing the screams of pain and echoing along the halls of that hollowed mountain, as if the countless living things he sacrificed still lingered there as haunting shades. But the sounds were never the voices of ghosts, only the voices of each new collection of prisoners, soon to be killed and replaced. He took their lives—Men, Elves, all sorts of beings of all shapes and sizes. Little Halflings and great trolls, he did not distinguish. He killed them all, and made their lives into his own power.

"For five more centuries he continued to train me and I vowed that one day I would have my freedom, and my revenge. I tried many, many times throughout the centuries, but I never succeeded. We were his chattel.

"All too soon, the day came when he wanted me to complete a contract. I swore my first blood-oath. My victim was an Elf that I was to find and kill; Belderon supplied me with all the necessary information. The assassination, the first of many, was almost too easy. I completed my task and when I returned to Nenuial, Belderon allowed my mother and sister outside for a day—one entire day, to be under the trees and to feel the sunlight, to breathe in the air.

"I never knew why he wanted the targets to die, but I told myself that I did not care what drove his revenge. It was easier not to think of them as innocents, as victims of Belderon's rage. He simply wanted them dead, and I obliged. I had no way of knowing what was happening in the outside world. He always gave me enough information so that I stayed only briefly in the same area as the target. I always left right after, and the Elves never seemed to suspect anything amiss. My days were spent traveling from one place to another for deadly assignations, and it was a sort of freedom.

"I killed many others that got in my master's way—many, many others. So many that I no longer counted. He had created a monster to serve him. I became too good of a pupil, I became his little Nightingale. I destroyed lives as my Master wished…as he had once, so long ago, destroyed mine. I became the perfect weapon that he had wanted me to become, the perfect killer for him to use.

"Nothing changed and the years stretched on to centuries, and the centuries to millennia and more. I felt nothing, I _was _nothing. I neither lived nor died. Nothing changed, until Belderon wanted me to swear another blood-oath and called it the last oath I would ever take.

"It was so important to him that I kill the prince of Mirkwood. To me, my new target was nothing more than a name, as all the others had been, but he offered me freedom. He offered the freedom of my mother and sister—never had he done so. I could not understand why this was different, but it did not matter. I accepted. It was to be just another assignation, but there was hope again. There was the possibility of change.

"He kept everything secret, even the prince's name. He gave me specific instructions to make the death painful, to make sure that the prince saw me as he died and knew that Belderon had sent me—had sent his death to him.

"I thought that when he said that I would find the prince of Mirkwood at Lothlórien, it meant he was already there. I believed that it would not affect my task if I became friends with the companions I had met, and I longed to be close to them. I would never see them again after my mission and they would not interfere. I craved the contact that I had been denied for so long and I found myself believing in my own illusions. As if I were truly a messenger. As if I were truly free.

"I never guessed that Legolas was the Prince of Mirkwood that I was to kill, but when I found out, it was too late. Belderon had offered freedom as a sweet and tempting offering, but I never forgot that he did not need to do so. My mother and sister's lives were always his to control, his to end if I did not do as he commanded. And if I did disobey, one could die as a lesson, leaving the other to take her place.

"I had grown to truly love those in Lórien that I would hurt. I had held them close and laughed with them in joy and cried with them in grief. I had never felt anything until these woods, and then it was as if I had finally known what it was like to live. And yet, I knew I had to finish my task.

"Belderon had destroyed my family in order to reach me. He killed my father for revenge, but he had also chosen my family because he wanted _me_. He wanted to see the daughter of a noble Elf brought low, turned into a conscienceless killer—and he succeeded.

"I was not sure that I could do it, but I tried anyway, knowing that I would kill myself if I succeeded. That was the promise I made to myself as I stood over him and watched the moonlight catch his hair and silver his fair skin. I had finally discovered a price that I could not pay.

"I thought I would succeed, but I could not do it after all. I had the opportunity to kill him, even after he woke up, even after I was discovered. I am experienced at death and I know exactly where to strike and how. I could have killed him with the first blow, so why did I not? I could still have killed him after that, so why did I not? Why could I not?

"For the first time, I failed. I failed knowing full well the consequences of my failure, and even now Belderon has bound me to my mother. With every heartbeat, I can feel her pain and fear as he punishes her for my failure. I know that she is slowly dying and I know that she is dying because of me, an Elf renamed and reborn in death's shadow. I ask myself why. I ask myself why I stared into his eyes and stopped.

"I missed the heart because I could not bear to pierce my own."

* * *

It was completely silent in the circle save for the sound of Sariel's harsh breaths. If she closed her eyes she imagined that she could pretend that she was all alone, but the doubled rhythm of two hearts beating in her chest reminded her that she was not. The silence dragged on until a faint breeze stirred the leaves of the trees, and then it was as if a collective shudder passed through the Elves and they breathed again, no longer the ethereal and inhuman guardian spirits of the forest but living beings, subject to flaws and follies as all living beings were.

The power faded from the Lady of the Wood and she became merely Galadriel, clear blue eyes wise and tired, skin a golden cream but no longer glowingly translucent. Her eyes were wide as she stared at Sariel and tears trickled down her smooth cheeks, soundlessly.

"Child of Lórien," she whispered. "Sariel Nightstar, you are _mine_."

Tears glittered in Galadriel's eyes and she reached out to take Sariel's hand in her own, careful now not to disturb the broken wrist. In fact, the pain that Sariel had felt lessened, as if Galadriel were healing it. She did not understand, but Galadriel's tears fell on their hands, wet and warm.

"_Ai_, how cruelly fate has torn you from us, until I thought I would never see my kin again. You are Sariel Giladuial, blood of my blood, daughter of Lorianiel, daughter of my brother Aegnor. You are kin to me and through me, kin to Arwen." Galadriel openly wept now and Sariel took in a breath, barely able to comprehend her words.

The circle of Elves had been rousing after the conclusion of Sariel's confession, however. _Assassin, _came the whispers. _A killer we have raised…what monster has been made from us? _And as the words fell like hard pearls from the lips of Galadriel, the Elves quieted, shocked and silenced.

Two Elves stepped forward into the center of the circle and Sariel looked at their feet, fighting back fear and hope. Finally, when she looked up, she saw the recognition on the faces of Haldir and Vanidar. They stood by her, and yet they did not know how to act when faced with this shivering Elf before them, so different from the childhood friend they had known. The Sariel here was hardly more than an animal—filthy, bloodied with matted hair, bloodied, the wounds from the whipping raw and opened. She gazed at them with wild, mad eyes as if she had expected someone else.

Slowly, the light in her eyes dimmed. Sariel rose to her feet, allowing Haldir to help her, and bit her lip to prevent cries of pain when he inadvertently touched her back. She raised her head with equanimity and stared with frightening intensity at Galadriel.

"You name me Sariel Giladuial, but that Elf died two millennia ago. I am not the innocent Elven child that played under the mallorn-trees of Lórien. I am an assassin and I do not deny it. I do not seek forgiveness or redemption, for none is possible for one such as I. Do you pretend to accept me? I am not your kin, nor kin to any here."

Disgust and horror flickered over some of the Elves' faces as they watched her and heard her words. Galadriel continued to weep over Sariel's hand, the Lady seemingly diminished although she was much taller than Sariel. Some around the first circle were watching and waiting, but others stirred as if they would seize her, ready for her execution. Each had come to their own judgment about this Elf before them, but Sariel did not care about any of them.

"I am not your kin," she repeated. "I am no child of Lórien. I only ask that you delay my execution and release me so that I may help my mother and sister, who remain in Belderon's power."

The Elves did not stir, but Vanidar's grip on her arm tightened and he looked around at the circle of Elves, briefly meeting each pair of eyes. There was determination in his tear-bright eyes, a passion and strength that echoed what Sariel remembered of him when he had been a child. His voice trembled, but steadied and increased in strength as he spoke, his speech clear and loud so that all heard, even those beyond the first circle.

"I will help you, Sariel, in the memory of what once was. Though I may despise and hate your acts, I know that you did not do them willingly. You claim that the Sariel Giladuial that I knew has died, but I see you and I hear you, and it is the same will that burns in you as in she that I once knew, and once loved."

Sariel's breath caught in wonder and tears tightened her throat as she looked at Vanidar. For all her words, now that her memories were clear, she could not help but also feel what she once did for this friend.

"In my heart I can forgive you, though you do not ask it of me," Vanidar said, looking at her, and she cried because here was an Elf who shone so brightly, who loved the light so dearly. Here was an Elf whose heart was valiant enough to forgive a killer, brave enough to extend a helping hand, and willing enough to understand her past.

"Together forever," he whispered in her ear so that only she could hear, and tears overfilled her eyes. A pledge of friendship was tested here, an oath kept even as she had broken her own.

"And I, too, forgive you," another voice called out, the words carrying. Haldir grasped Sariel's hand in one of his, and Vanidar's in his other. Their triangle, complete once more, however briefly. "Whatever he made you, it is not a transformation you have accepted. You are Sariel, my friend, and I do not believe you can be blamed for what happened to you. I do not hold the deaths against you, but rather, against the master of yours that you name, Belderon. You are as much a victim as those you have killed."

This proclamation from the marchwarden swayed the Elves a little, although some faces still betrayed their hate. Haldir's brothers stood close by, lending their silent support, but all eyes turned back to Galadriel as she walked toward Sariel. Her tears were gone as if they had never existed. She now looked at Sariel with unfathomable eyes, but then abruptly turned to Legolas.

"I believe the full story has not been heard," she said. "What part do you play in this, O prince of Mirkwood? Who is Belderon and why does he so thirst to drink of bitter vengeance?"

Legolas looked up at her and although Sariel stood beside Galadriel, he avoided her gaze. "Hidden shadows are in my past as well," he said roughly. "Though no Elf has spoken of it, the shameful story remains hidden within our memories. I shall tell it now, for all to understand."

Unlike Sariel's harsh, dry recollection of past events, Legolas's voice took on the smooth, rhythmic rise and fall of a trained Elven storyteller. Yet there was no pleasure in the performance, but only grief.

"Listen, and listen well, for this story is one of treachery and tells of the darkness in the heart of an Elf. Long ago, when the Darkness was upon Mirkwood and it was known by the name _Taur e-Ndaedelos_, the forest of great fear, there was an Elven youth by the name of Legolas, son of the king of that woodland realm. He was not the only child of Thranduil, however. Indeed, he had a much older sister named Rhiannon, a singer of renown, for the quality and beauty of her voice was near unrivaled among the Elves. She was truly beautiful in many ways and many desired her.

"Amongst her suitors was one Faldelin, the son of Lord Belderon. He desired nothing more than Rhiannon, although her heart had already been given to her betrothed, Brethilas. Rhiannon turned him away gently, but he persisted. The trouble grew serious when he took her and locked her in a room with him.

"Rhiannon, heir to the king, had grown to hate Faldelin and increasingly spurned his love, rightfully naming it an obsession. Faldelin's desire was stronger than any could have guessed, and the day came when it knew no limits. He took her and raped her, and then beat her to death. When her broken body was found, Faldelin admitted to the crime. He claimed that she had flaunted her body in front of him and had insulted his love for her—had insulted him, the son of Belderon, Thranduil's most trusted advisor and Lord of Mirkwood. He was swiftly sentenced to execution and yet he escaped from prison through the influence of his father, to whom many owed favors.

"The boy, Legolas, was grief-stricken at the death of his beloved sister. He had his opportunity when Faldelin made his escape, for Legolas was skilled in tracking and eager to confront his sister's killer. However, Faldelin, an Elf full grown and in his prime, overcame the child easily and nearly took his life, declaring that Legolas had encouraged Rhiannon in rejecting him. Thranduil had intervened in time and Legolas was rescued. Faldelin was returned to the dungeon.

"Thranduil had called a council and Faldelin was deemed guilty by unanimous agreement. He was executed by the sword and hand of the king himself. Belderon, his father, went mad with grief as his only child, his beloved son and heir, was killed. The Lord attempted to lead a revolt against the King, for he had his own allies and there were those whose sympathies lay with him. Many had been corrupted by the taint of darkness and desired their own power. The rebellion, however, did not succeed.

"King Thranduil exiled Belderon and stripped him of title and all prestige. He also deprived him of all else that he had enjoyed as the King's favored advisor. Belderon was banished from Mirkwood with an escort of Elves and nothing more was heard from him until a messenger arrived with news of Belderon's death at the hands of orcs. The body had been mutilated and burned, but they were certain that they had identified him.

"As the shadow fell over the forest, more Elves became twisted and mad. More tales of atrocities and horrors beyond comprehension emerged, acts committed that were against our very natures. Talk of Rhiannon gradually decreased until she was remembered only as a songwriter and singer. The princess was mourned, but no one was told of the truth of her premature death, and gradually, she was forgotten as the true heir to the throne.

"It was thus so that her brother became the prince and heir in her stead."

Legolas ended the tale quietly, the last few words spoken so softly that all strained to catch them.

"So Belderon wants revenge on Thranduil by killing _his _son and heir, as Thranduil had done to Faldelin," Galadriel surmised, and Sariel shuddered.

"I have not told you all," she interrupted before Galadriel could continue. "My message from Belderon was not a false one. He has banded the orcs and trolls together and has always planned some sort of massive invasion. He wants revenge on Thranduil and Legolas's death, but that is not all—he wants to destroy the Elvish strongholds: Lórien, Imladris, and especially Mirkwood. He must feel betrayed by the Elves since they supported Thranduil in his exile and in the execution of his son."

"So he has been the ones directing them," Galadriel murmured tiredly. "Your information is not new, but there is even more danger than we believed."

Sariel finally turned to face Legolas and the others. Their faces were closed to her, but at least she had the courage to look at them.

"Will you let me go?" she asked them.

"No matter how you may deny it, Lorianiel is my kin as well as your mother," Galadriel said sternly. "Haldir is the marchwarden of Lórien, not able to go as he wills, to aid you. Vanidar, too, is a valuable warrior and we will need all to fend off the orcs.

"Destroy Belderon and the number of orcs will not increase," Sariel told her.

"Explain," the Lady ordered.

"He has turned his hollowed mountain into a breeding ground for orcs."

"So he raises his own army." Galadriel took the news more calmly than the rest, though most still had stoic countenances. "We will send a small band to Nenuial in hopes of eliminating the source. However, letting _you _go—"

There was no warning before every Elf in the circle was struck by a sudden, intense flash of anger. Sariel stifled a shriek as something stabbed into her chest just below her left breast, piercing her heart. Her right hand flew to the wound, but there was no blood and no actual wound. The phantom knife was pulled out of her body, and this time, Sariel failed to suppress her screams.

"Mother…" she gasped out in horror, and the invisible knife descended again, plunging with force. She was feeling what Lorianiel was feeling…she felt Lorianiel's heartbeat beneath her fingers where they were pressed to her heart, and the two rhythms of her heart and her mother's, always slightly different, suddenly aligned. She felt and heard her heartbeat, but she shared it completely with Lorianiel.

_Thud-thump. Thud-thump. Thud-thump._

"Don't leave me," Sariel whispered, and she would have fallen if Vanidar and Haldir had not been gripping her arms so tightly. She tore free from them and bent over, hands pressed over her heart, hardly cognizant of anything around her. "Don't leave me alone. Please, Mother!"

She felt a deadly power rise, threatening to split apart her heart the way that Galadriel had split apart her mind. Her heart beat faster but it was struggling; her chest was on fire but her fingers felt no blood. Belderon had stabbed her mother.

"NO!" she screamed when the pain started the fade away. There was only a blank nothingness where another pulse had thrummed inside her veins. Her own heartbeat was suddenly too loud and blood roared in her ears. The last bit of pain was suddenly gone, as if a thread of spider silk had been stretched and had finally snapped.

"_MOTHER_!"

At her cry, Arwen, Gimli, and Boromir ran toward her. The Elves around the circle had all scattered into different groups, no longer forming a ring, but all the activity froze when the cold voice was heard, every word precise and clear.

"_For your failure…they shall die."_

Every Elf heard the malevolent whisper in their mind, but with Sariel it was increased tenfold, a hundredfold. The power filled her, increasing until she thought she was going to die and welcomed it. Her blue eyes opened wide, but she could see nothing but streaks of light against an overwhelming darkness; her head throbbed with a great pressure.

The fountain nearby suddenly erupted to life, water shooting up high and more pouring out of it—a torrent of water. The trees outside of the stone circle exploded into flame, the delicate green leaves turning to ash in a matter of seconds. Yet, after the trees immediately ringing the circle burned, the other trees did not, though the fire clung to them, burning. Cries of alarm and fear sounded from the Elves as they sought to flee and found that they could not pass through the walls of flame without being badly burned.

Sariel cried out, unable to withstand the pressure she felt, the accompanying pain. Galadriel left her and Elves everywhere ran toward the middle of the circle, trying to escape the fire. As Sariel screamed until her voice gave out, they stopped before they reached her, forming a milling mass around her, none willing to go near her.

The ground rumbled with warning signs and the azure cast of the sky suddenly turned black between one breath and another. All around them, the clouds opened up and the water poured, but it did not douse the fires dancing on the trees with such ferocity. The wind swirled with more and more force and somewhere in the midst of this chaos, Galadriel reached out to Sariel.

"_You_ are causing it, do you understand? You are the one causing all this!"

Sariel did not hear her, could not see her. Her eyes were glassy, reflecting the flames around them, and yet when Galadriel looked into them, the dark blue irises swirled as if with currents of water. Her hands were clenched into fists by her sides and her broken wrist seemed healed, or perhaps Sariel was beyond pain.

"STOP! Sariel, calm yourself!"

But she could not. Not when she had felt the very thing she feared so much to lose. Not when she realized that everything she had done until now, every horrific act she had committed, had suddenly become meaningless. The madness inside of her burst out everywhere—the destruction continued, magnified, and escalated until she could not have stopped it, even if she had wanted to. Sariel was on the floor writhing on her back, yet Galadriel tried to restrain her, pinning her arms down.

"_SARIEL!"_ Galadriel cried again, her voice terrible. There was a real and potent fear in her eyes. The piercing cry reverberated and echoed, gathering strength in Sariel's mind. Suddenly the excruciating pain was too much to bear and Sariel hesitated, the last remains of her tenuous grasp on the situation slipping. She let go—of everything.

Her vision dulled into senseless black, and her arched back and tensed muscles finally relaxed. Her debilitated body could not contain the power, but the power had chosen her as its vessel, and it would not, _could not_ relent. Her mind acquiesced to its demands as Galadriel held her upper body in her lap, the hands brushing over Sariel's temples.

Everything was over in one abrupt moment, leaving an eerie sort of calm where there had been absolute chaos. The numerous pairs of keen ears could hear nothing at all. Everything had stopped, just as Lorianiel's heart had stopped—and every Elf present had felt it.

There was only silence left.

* * *

A/N: **Please review! **

_Finalized July 2008_


	8. Mysteries of Nature

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Do not plagiarize.

Pronunciation:

Lianderthral: Lee-ANN-dur-thral; as in the word enthrall

Aradrywn: AIR-ah-drin

Numinar: NU-mih-nar

Translations:

_Taur e-Ndaedelos_: 'forest of great fear,' another name for Mirkwood

* * *

**Chapter 8: Mysteries of Nature**

* * *

The Lady of the Golden Wood was exhausted, but she did not have the luxury of rest. Neither did those that surrounded her as she sat down before a polished wooden table, glancing about her to see whether everyone was present. Legolas, Vanidar, Arwen, Gimli, Haldir, and Boromir were among those at the table, along with a few others. The seat directly across from her was empty, kept available for a very special guest.

With Vanidar and Haldir's help, Arwen had managed to put Sariel in a bed, although she had remained unconscious. Perhaps it was all for the better, for the Elves who had attended the council were now busy putting everything to rights again after the eventful day.

It was not often that Galadriel was truly troubled, both for her personal life as well as for her people, and yet in the person of Sariel those two troubles had converged. There were so many secrets to uncover from a past that she had thought was over. Lorianiel had been alive all this time, suffering, and in the end Galadriel was nothing but a helpless witness to her death. Lessena was still in captivity—she could scarcely comprehend the horror of it, to jail a spirit so free and for so long—while Sariel had accepted her role as an assassin.

Galadriel's greatest fears had also been confirmed by Sariel's words: Belderon, intent on revenge, had raised an army so that he could destroy as much of the Elven race as he possibly could. Worst yet, she knew with a drastic kind of clarity that of all the Elves, Belderon was one who actually had the means to do what he wanted. He might have been driven by the thought of vengeance, but Belderon had not let it control him. He had waited for hundreds of years to develop his plans and although he had failed where Legolas was concerned, he had invested much in Sariel.

In fact, he nearly had succeeded. If Sariel had not met Legolas and if she had not had renewed hope for freedom, she would not have hesitated to kill. The thought was almost unbearable to Galadriel. The Elves had a natural aversion to killing, but they participated in war just the same. Yet this was something different altogether, a series of cold-blooded killings, senseless in every way. Sariel had not hated her victims, she had not had any desire to kill them, and yet she did. It was not that she took lives, but that she took them with such ease though she had little personal motivation.

However, whatever Sariel's past actions, it had been her display of strange powers that had been so deeply troubling. It was not magic to Galadriel, any more than her own powers were magic. But it had succeeded in reducing ageless trees into charred wisps and a marble fountain to rubble. It had darkened the sky with a great storm and dismissed it only a few moments later. It was simply incomprehensible, that Sariel was her relation by blood, and that she had caused the earth to split and quake.

Galadriel looked toward the doors as they opened, admitting the last of the special council. In the midst of all the chaos that had surrounded Sariel's revelations, Mithrandir had arrived without warning. Galadriel only wished that he had not made such a dramatic entrance, but she looked at him now and was certain that his presence was no coincidence. He had been known as _Stormcrow_ in times past, for his arrivals were associated with times of trouble, and Galadriel had not forgotten this.

Despite the calamities she had faced today, her voice and manner were serene when she spoke. "I welcome you, Mithrandir."

Looking at the wizard, Galadriel felt even more troubled, for his face had a peculiar cast to it, as if he expected trouble. At a quick request from her, Haldir recounted the events that had transpired since Sariel had entered Lórien. The wizard listened with a fierce interest and did not speak until the very end.

"It is as I thought," were the words he offered first. His face was grave as he continued. "Belderon waited for many years out of patience, but also because he is a scholar. He obtains power by sacrificing lives and stealing the spirit, the existence, of his victims. There are powers available to those who are unlike myself and my brethren, but it is a forbidden knowledge and the ways have long been lost."

"What do you mean, Gandalf?" Boromir spoke up, his eyes narrow and angry, full of human distrust toward what he considered magic. Almost all eyes turned to him at his outburst, and no one noticed how Galadriel had paled slightly when she had grasped what the wizard's cryptic words implied. The others had not even yet realized that Sariel had been the one who had caused the destruction, although Arwen's eyes rested often on Galadriel, and whatever she saw seemed to make her suspect the truth.

Gandalf continued blithely through Boromir's interruption. "Some time after my brethren, the Istari, came to Middle-Earth, an Elf by the name of Numinar was found to be able to wield a special kind of power. His power was both like and unlike ours, for though many of us have an affinity for certain elements, Numinar could direct, to some extent, _all_ the elements. Or rather, it was as if all the elements channeled themselves through him. The extent of his powers was hard to judge for they were so unusual, but he possessed a remarkable will."

Looking at Gandalf, staff in hand and standing before her rather than sitting as the others, Galadriel was acutely aware that he had once born Narya, the Ring of Fire. Mithrandir, the Elves called him, the Grey Pilgrim. His was a spirit that was warm and succoring, but Galadriel knew what others did not, and knew that the ash-grey garments concealed a flame as bright as her own—a flame that burned clear and renewing, the opposite of Sauron's fire, which devoured and destroyed.

"And from whence did this Numinar come?" Vanidar asked sharply, recalling also that the Men of the North had deemed Gandalf, in error, to be of Elven-kind.

"He was fully Elven," Gandalf answered, meeting not Vanidar's, but Galadriel's eyes. The room was silent for a heartbeat, but the tension that had suddenly risen dissipated when the wizard looked away from the Lady. "Although the origin of his power remained a mystery, it was not a pressing concern because Numinar's potentially deadly abilities were safely controlled. There was no ill intent in him. He was accepted by all until Lianderthral was found."

There was a bleak thread in Gandalf's voice and those recognizing the name looked uneasy. No one interrupted the wizard as he continued. "Lianderthral nearly burned down a third of the forest before the Elves realized who was causing the destruction, albeit unintentionally. They sent him to Numinar, who took him on as his student and taught him at Rivendell. Years later, however, Numinar had changed. He became unpredictable and was no longer fully in command of himself. His power had begun to dominate his life. He became reclusive for fear of harming others, though his family refused to leave him. It all came to a tragic end, for his power raged uncontrollably one day and wife, son, and daughter were all killed.

"In the aftermath, he lost the will to live. He blamed himself and saw his powers as a curse, falling ever deeper into despair. Lianderthral found his body some days later, though the cause of his death was unknown. Thus, Lianderthral left Rivendell and dwelt for a time at Lórien, where he continued his own studies and attempted to understand the extraordinary abilities he possessed. He was granted sanctuary by the Lady Galadriel, though some opposed his presence and the danger it presented."

Gandalf looked at Galadriel again, who inclined her head slightly in remembrance. "Lianderthral left Lórien some years past," she said. "He lives now in obscurity in the mountains, preferring his solitude."

Gandalf frowned at the news, but shook his head with a sigh. "As this tale illustrates, such abilities, while unusual among Elves, are not impossible. I suspect that your prisoner, Sariel, is another one such. Her newly wakened power is like a beacon, burning pure and unceasingly. Even in sleep, I feel the intensity of her nature and the strength of her ties to the world around her."

"She takes her strength from the elements," Galadriel interposed somberly. "It explains much, for the elements are the very essence of this world. Others would have perished in her place."

"Yes," agreed Gandalf. "That is why we must be sure that she is not a threat to us, and we must be sure that she can control what has awakened inside her."

"It is impossible!" The outburst came from Vanidar, although several Elves echoed his words when he uttered them. His crystalline grey-green eyes were bright with worry—and with fear. "You speak as if she can control the very elements around us!"

"No," Gandalf said shortly. "You misunderstand. If anything, the elements control _her_, for she is the vessel they have chosen. It is a burden, not a gift. It can only make her path more difficult and more dangerous."

The wizard's words were solemn and convincing. Sariel must be taught, but who was to be her teacher? Glances were exchanged, some of their thoughts running along similar lines. Now that Sariel, already a dangerous assassin, was revealed to possess destructive power as well, what would they do with her? What plans could they make to fight off the orcs and to save Lessena?

These were questions that only led to more questions. The Elves broke into quiet talk, led by Galadriel, and conferred for hours before they were forced to retire, weary and unsatisfied.

They had been unable to come to any decisive solutions.

* * *

"You have brought the corpse?" Belderon demanded of the captain of his orcs. The orc shook his deformed, grotesque head in affirmation and left quickly when Belderon waved him away. Two others dragged a body into the room and uncovered it before exiting.

Belderon stared down at the corpse of Aragorn. Now dead for about four weeks and secretly removed from his grave in Lórien, his body remained perfectly preserved. He looked almost as if he were just sleeping, except the color of his face was too pale, his expression too stiff. Otherwise, he was no worse for wear for being transported to Nenuial. The corpse hardly looked or seemed like one.

It had been an easy matter, for the Elves had not thought to watch over the dead. They had never needed to, of course, and Lórien had been in chaos after Sariel's attack on Legolas. When Sariel had informed Belderon of Aragorn's death, he had almost been unable to believe the windfall. He had immediately planned to retrieve the king's body in the confusion after Legolas's death, but his assassin had failed.

At least this part was still perfect. _You will be mine_, he thought, his anger still provoked by the fact that Sariel had failed. _You will be mine even more than she is mine, and you will be incapable of failing. Those fools at __Taur e-Ndaedelos will know only the bitterness of regret. I will see the throne emptied, the trees felled, the land burned beyond the possibility of life._

Belderon allowed himself a slight smile at the thought and then ordered an orc to bring him the three drugged captives—all Elves. He watched as the orc snapped their necks with efficient, brutal movements. His mind was scarcely focused on the scene before him as he reveled in the lives he had stolen, the sheer rush of energy and power. There was little doubt in his mind that he would succeed in what he was about to attempt.

He dismissed the orcs and locked the door behind them before returning to Aragorn's side. The bodies of the Elves lay beside the Man, their dead flesh slowly cooling. Belderon took a deep breath and knelt beside Aragorn, emptying his mind and immersing himself in work.

About three hours later, he rose to his feet, slightly unsteady and more drained than he had been in years. However, Belderon looked down at the body with satisfaction and a cold pride.

"Come, my pet," he crooned, watching the corpse avidly. The chest seemed to rise and fall slightly, but he wanted more. He had not bided his time for a millennia, consulting all manner of the rarest of manuscripts, only to achieve what he wanted to a degree.

"Awaken!" he commanded again. "Awaken, for you are mine."

Slowly, so slowly, the Man's eyes opened and he sat up in seeming confusion. Belderon could hardly suppress his twisted pleasure. There was no one around to see him, but his emotionless face showed a perverse delight. The Man stared blankly back at him and Belderon spoke slowly and clearly, as if giving instructions to a child.

"You are named Aradrywn," he began. "You are the commander of all the orcs and trolls, second only to me. I am Belderon, your master."

"Aradrywn," the Man repeated after him, as if he had forgotten how to speak, and then spoke more firmly. "Master." His voice was hollow and his bluish lips stretched in a horrible parody of a smile, set in a rictus.

Belderon's avarice gleamed in his eyes, but what he truly coveted was a different kind of money—power. It was obvious that his plan was in effect, exactly as he had wanted. He now had Aragorn, or rather, Aradrywn, as a leader for his army. Though Aragorn would have no memory of himself, all else had been left intact—his warfare training and experience, his strategic mind. There was everything that would eventually give the victory to Belderon.

After all, Aragorn was a king, or had been. Belderon had only given him another kind of kingdom and another kind of people.

It was so fortunate that Aragorn had died, and Belderon had not even had to arrange it. Belderon could _almost_ forgive Sariel for betraying him, because he had easily gained an even more effective tool than her. He had a mindless puppet who would do anything he ordered him to do, and there was almost no effort involved. Defiance had always lurked in Sariel although Belderon had never known how deeply it had run, had never suspected that it would end in a failure to kill, or he would have not sent her after Legolas. Now Legolas was at least temporarily beyond his reach.

Belderon gritted his teeth. If he had known how to do this earlier, every Elf would have been destroyed by now. All those endless hours had borne fruit, however. He had always been the consummate scholar, even while serving Thranduil, and he had a brilliant mind.

_An army of dead yet living Elves_… He stilled as the idea occurred to him. How would Galadriel like being killed by her own lost Lorianiel? _Imagine the horror on the Elves' faces as their own loved ones raised weapons to kill them_, he thought. _What would it be like to have them experience the same devastation that I have faced, the loss of everything I had valued in the world at the hands of the people I had always given my loyalty to?_

Long ago, his race had betrayed him. Now they had to face the knowledge that one of their own did this, to face the fact that perhaps the mighty and beautiful Elves were not such perfection as they imagined themselves to be. There was something rotting beneath the beautiful exterior, and something dark even in the beautiful souls. They were no better than the Men they secretly so scorned for beasts…behind the pretty façade, they were no better…

Finely shaped colorless eyes narrowed in hate, but Belderon's mind was filled with ideas as the impact of what he had done occurred to him. He could not stop himself from jubilantly laughing out loud. Could it work? He had crossed the boundary between death and life—what else could he do with this kind of power?

_At last they will pay…_ Reluctantly he stored the thoughts away for later, aware that he was close to letting his desire for revenge override practical considerations.

The Man had been standing silently next to him, as obedient as a slave. Belderon turned to him and then carefully explained to Aragorn what he wanted 'Aradrywn' to do. Everything was falling into place.

Hours later, at the head of a host of more than two thousand orcs, Aragorn marched toward Mirkwood.

* * *

Sariel woke up face down, uncomfortably positioned so that her neck ached. She groggily turned over, but her mind began to clear as soon as her back touched the bed. Stifling a cry of pain, she hurriedly turned back over. After a moment she cautiously looked around, realizing that she was in her old room. The familiarity of her surroundings brought back her memories, yet she felt numb and detached from it all, as if it had happened to someone else, in another world. Too much had happened for her to accept.

Her old injuries were healing, but she had new ones to contend with now. When she realized that she was pain-free, Sariel looked at her wrist curiously. It had been neatly wrapped with white bandaging, hardened in order to help immobilize her wrist. Tentatively, she reached behind herself and was unsurprised to find that a heavy padded bandage covered the wounds from her whipping. It made what she had suffered seem even more unreal.

Her heart sank when she saw Legolas standing by the door of her room. Of all the Elves, he was the one she wished most not to meet.

"So the assassin is awake," he said tonelessly, but the choice of words needed no added emphasis. Inwardly Legolas knew it was puerile to play such games, but his mind was still chaotic after a sleepless night spent thinking about Sariel. His lips curled up in a cynical smile.

"Why are you here?" Sariel tried to match his tone, but even to her own ears, she sounded childlike and almost plaintive.

"What, are you not pleased to see me here?" he said acerbically. His hands had clenched into fists at his sides. "Oh yes, I forgot. I should not be alive right now. It must be unsettling to see the evidence of your failure before you."

She knew that he was deliberately baiting her, but she could not help herself. Sariel had only anger or tears left, and she chose anger. Even to the last, she had expected him to somehow stand up for her, to understand that she had not had any choice. However foolish it was to expect that he would help her, even if he could not forgive her, somehow she had held on to that hope. She had gritted her teeth through the lashes, waiting for another voice to cry out for it to stop before she did.

"I would not hesitate to kill you right now," she said as calmly as she could, though her voice shook. It was a lie, but there was enough truth in her words for him to believe it. "I would gladly trade your life for those of my mother and sister."

"Shall you try again?" Legolas retorted. "I am no longer your sleeping victim. Shall you look into my eyes this time?"

"Do you think I cannot?"

"Try it," he snarled. "Look at me."

At that, she turned toward him, intent on proving him wrong, but her eyes were so full of tears that she saw nothing. "What do you see when you look at me, Legolas?"

"Do you even need to ask?"

Sariel turned away. "Forget it," she said. "What could you possibly know? What kind of pain and suffering could you have experienced, the son of a king?"

His eyes were burning with anger. "You know nothing about me."

"And you presume to know—" Sariel began, but her voice finally broke, and she knew she could not keep up much longer.

"I see a killer," he interrupted. "You ask what I see when I look at you. I see a killer. What answer did you expect?"

She walked up to him, shoulders trembling. He flinched when she raised her hands, but she merely pushed him out of the room. He neither resisted, nor left of his own will.

As soon as she slammed the door, Sariel's tears could no longer be suppressed. She lay on her bed and wept. She was defenseless before his accusations because they were true, and yet it was only one part of the truth. She was an assassin, so she should have been hardened spiritually and emotionally, and yet she was not. She had lived for many years, yet she had spent all that time alone, with no one to teach her right from wrong, nothing to let her truly experience life.

Physically, she could outlast most Elves. Her senses were sharper, her body stronger, her spirit more focused. She was naturally gifted with a clever mind, and through a lifetime of training, she had gained extraordinary reflexes. She knew all her weapons well, both material and intangible.

She had thought herself strong and in control, but was she truly? Her life had been ordered about according to the pleasure of Belderon. In two thousand years, she could barely remember any happier times, and for all her experience, she knew no more of the world and the ruthless games of kingdom and power than a child. Could one be an assassin and yet still innocent?

Her pillow was damp from the tears, but Sariel rested her head on it. Her black hair fanned out to one side, a sharp contrast to the white of the sheets. Legolas's words had pierced her through and through. No one had ever hurt her so, except for Belderon. No one had had the power to make her heart feel as if it would stop. Yet there was only so much pain that one could take, after all, no matter how great the heartbreak.

A few last tears slipped out and then Sariel fell asleep.

* * *

Night had fallen outside after what seemed like countless hours. She had been locked in the room, but no one had tried to speak to her while she had been awake. Sariel had lay on her back with her eyes closed for what seemed like hours, listening to the sound of her own breathing. Now, she rose silently, albeit stiffly.

Someone must have entered the room while she was asleep, for they had left her things on the table. She checked the bags, surprised that everything was there, even the stiletto with which she had tried to kill Legolas. Evidently, Galadriel trusted her not to attempt anything else—and though Sariel did not want to break that trust, she _had _to free Lessena. Lorianiel was beyond help; Lessena, however, was still living. Galadriel had not yet refused or accepted her plea to let her go, but every moment was a moment wasted.

Her lockpicks had not been returned with her weapons, but after some tampering, Sariel managed to unlock the door. Given the threat that the Elves faced, perhaps they would not even care to follow her, but Sariel deliberately jammed the lock. Perhaps it would buy her some time.

She needed all the time she could get, for even after she escaped from the room, she found that there were double the guards at the stables. Sariel did not wish for them to die, but their vigilance made it difficult for her to move quickly. Soon, someone would discover that her room was empty. Although it was still not too difficult for her to render the Elves unconscious, the extra delay irritated her—and yet she could not bring herself to truly harm them. Myste whickered a welcome to her and Sariel almost smiled in response, though her amusement had a touch of bitterness. In the filly's world, nothing had changed.

She rode at a hard gallop, pushing Myste's endurance and speed to the limit. By dawn, she had covered almost as much distance as she would have in an entire day. Elf and horse stopped to rest for a little while, but soon they pressed on again towards Nenuial.

A fierce determination gripped Sariel's heart, giving her a courage born of desperation.

* * *

The face in the mirror was handsome—an ageless face, with colorless eyes and dark golden hair that shone softly in the light. His ears looked strangely rounded, like a human's, but not quite. They once had tapered to delicate points, but were now blunted. Belderon wanted no reminder that he belonged to a race that had, in his mind, betrayed him.

He smiled at his reflection, knowing that his little assassin was coming home to him. Sariel was traveling back to Nenuial, no doubt for the sake of her sister. Once here, Belderon knew that she would be wholly under his power again.

He spared at glance toward the sister, but the ever-docile Lessena was still asleep from the concoction that he had given her. The fact that his pet was returning made him strangely happy. Her failure to kill the prince of Mirkwood had changed her from his weapon for revenge to a victim that would feel his full vengeance. Sariel's betrayal was one that came at a high cost.

She had always walked a fine line, but she had ultimately betrayed him to Galadriel. Thinking of the Lady of Lórien always increased Belderon's hate. She epitomized everything that Belderon found disgusting in the race of Elves. It was no wonder that Sariel, who shared her blood, had disappointed him in the end.

His Nightingale was coming. He would plan accordingly.

* * *

They stopped at noon on the second day, both unable to go farther. Myste was close to total exhaustion and although Lessena's life should have been worth more than a horse's, even the thought of risking hurt to Myste hurt too much to contemplate. Sariel had raised her from a foal; Myste was more than a horse to her.

They had also covered more land than she had expected, after pressing on even at night. She could not escape the fear of pursuit from Lórien, but Sariel could not base all her actions on a possibility. It was a good area to stop. Vibrant, lush green grass covered the land as far as the eye could see, strongly suggesting that water was also present. Sariel needed to care for Myste and then to hunt, eat, and bathe. They were using a different route from the one that she had chosen for the journey to Lórien. It was more difficult but also more direct. Then, she had had plenty of time to make her way leisurely to the Golden Wood, but now, Sariel had to return to Nenuial as soon as possible.

She felt much better when she was clean and full. Although Myste was clearly still fatigued, Sariel had been careful to check for injuries or strains, and the filly seemed ready to go on. As ideal as the place was for a more prolonged stop, the two of them continued on their journey.

The further they went, however, the darker the skies became. Already Sariel could feel dampness against her face and the air hung still and heavy, full of the threat of rain. A ghostly mist came to cover the grasslands, mingling with the heavy grey rain clouds that sat low on the horizon. There was a tension in the land as the animals that had sensed the coming storm sought shelter. Soon, no sound could be heard except the muffled pounding of Myste's hooves and the whisper of wind through the tall grasses.

The approaching storm was an unlucky sign for Sariel; judging by unbroken cover of overcast sky, it would probably last for a few days. Aside from the hours they would lose as they sheltered from the worst of the storm, they would make substantially less time after it had passed, since the earth would be wet and most likely muddy. Yet Sariel decided to push on, the thought of Lessena spurring her decision. As they rode, the sky blackened until the landscape around them was leached of color. Everything was grey, reflecting the ominous, ever increasing line of clouds.

It was almost four hours after noon when the skies opened up and the big, fat droplets of rain came pelting down. As if all the anticipation had been released, the weather showed no mercy to any who had not heeded its warning signs. Within minutes, Sariel and Myste were soaked, but they could not find shelter in the plains ahead of them. The Misty Mountains loomed before them and Sariel knew they had to reach the mountains to take shelter. The light in the sky was swallowed up by shadows until it almost seemed like night, and the rain fell unceasingly in torrents, making a rhythmic drumming sound that completely drowned out the sound of Myste's hoof beats. The ground turned muddy, as Sariel knew it would, and soon they were at a frustratingly slow pace, Myste having difficulty with the slippery mud.

When the mountains were just a mile or so ahead of them, the rain suddenly increased. It felt as if water was simply pouring out of the sky. Lightning crackled and both horse and rider startled as they heard thunder boom, frighteningly close. The next time the lighting struck, it flashed down and split a lone tree very close to them.

Myste, her eyes wild and rolling, screamed and reared high. It was a terrible sound, piercing even above the roaring winds and thunder. Sariel fought to both control her steed and to keep her seat, succeeding in bringing Myste down briefly. Yet the panicked horse only reared up higher, her front legs churning helplessly in the air. Sariel's shouted assurances in Elvish were utterly lost to the fury of the wind.

She leaned forward until her body was almost parallel to Myste's neck, abandoned the slippery reins, and grabbed handfuls of silver-grey mane. Even so, Sariel felt herself sliding on the rain-slicked saddle, but she hung on as tightly as she could, pressing her body against Myste's. As Myste pivoted on her hind legs, Sariel caught a glimpse of a golden-haired rider, tall and slender, mounted on a dark horse.

A moment later, her fingers desperately grabbed for Myste's coarse mane, but the rain had made everything impossible to grip and the hair only slid through her fingers. Sariel's left wrist was still healing and she could not use the hand at all with any strength. Without it to balance her, she lost the fight to stay mounted.

The last thing she remembered was seeing the golden-haired rider dismount as she fell hard to the ground.

* * *

She woke all at once, finding herself in a bed within a dark room lit only by a few candles. Tense with alarm, Sariel sat up quickly and then immediately wished that she had not, for black spots invaded her vision and the room spun. In addition to her aching wrist, her head also throbbed with pain close to her right temple.

As her memory returned, she cursed inwardly, realizing that she must have fallen. She could not even remember the last time she had been thrown from the back of a horse. Wary of attempting to rise, she looked around the room and saw someone standing with his back towards her. His clothes blended in with the surroundings, making him hard to distinguish clearly, yet Sariel could see long, flaxen-colored hair.

Her heart stopped as she stared at the familiar height and the golden hair, the slender, lithe, body. She gasped out loud, her pains forgotten.

"Legolas?"

The Elf, for clearly he _was_ an Elf, turned around, and Sariel suffered her second shock within a few moments. For a moment, she really did believe that the Elf was Legolas; so alike were their features. But after a closer look, she gradually saw the differences between the Elf she had known and the Elf in front of her. Most notably, Legolas had blue eyes, a brilliant sapphire shade, whereas this Elf had eyes the color of sunlight streaming through the forest trees, a strange mixture of green that was startlingly compelling.

She slowly noticed a few other subtle differences. The stranger had a sharper chin and his face was slightly narrower. His eyes were large, but also slanted in a way that vaguely seemed wolf-like. Yet the two Elves were so similar that she caught herself wondering if this was not Legolas after all, just…strangely altered. It was the best explanation her mind could come up with, although she almost immediately chastised herself for it, remembering exactly where she was. She was at least three days' ride from Lórien and Legolas would not have anything to do with her anyway, much less save her from the thunderstorm. He had not even come after her, as far as she knew.

Sariel closed her eyes, somewhat disoriented by her chaotic thoughts and emotions. She opened them again to see the Elf still looking at her directly, eyes as liquid as those of a prey animal's, yet as hard as a predator's.

"_Elen __sí__la l__ú__menn omentilmo_," the unknown Elf said in Quenya, the language of the High Elves.

Sariel frowned as she translated the words in her mind. "'A star shines on the hour of our meeting,'" she murmured. Unable to help herself, she started laughing despite the pain that spiked through her head. It was a silly thing to say, however noble the stranger had sounded while saying it.

"Since you found me after I fell from my horse in a _thunderstorm_, I sincerely doubt you could see any stars shining," she said when the stranger waited patiently for her amusement to subside.

A wry smile transformed the Elf's face. Sariel caught her breath again at the uncanny resemblance to Legolas. "Well said, though I still believe the hour of our meeting was very fortunate for you."

"Yes," said Sariel hesitantly. "I thank you for it. But…" She wanted to ask him about his resemblance, but found it difficult to speak of the subject for more than one reason. The Elf seemed to read her mind.

"As you have discovered, I am not Legolas, nor am I related to him. I have heard often that the prince and I look alike."

Faced with the Elf's suave acknowledgement, Sariel could not escape the topic though she strongly regretted blurting out the name. "Yes, you do look very similar to him," she murmured. "My name is Sariel. Pray tell, what may I call you, and how is it that you happened to be out in a storm? Surely you were not expecting to be rescuing muddy Elves and terrified horses."

Her slightly sarcastic tone startled a laugh out of the Elf. "I am known as Lianderthral, and as for how I saved you, the story will be long in the telling. No doubt you wish you bathe and eat before that." His words brought Sariel back to reality. Lessena was still in the hands of Belderon, and she did not have time to be casually conversing with strangers, even if the Elf had aided her.

"I must go," she told him. "I thank you again for helping me, but I must leave." It was only then that Sariel suddenly realized that Lianderthral had not mentioned her horse. "Myste! Is she all right? Did you manage to restrain her before she hurt herself?"

Seeing the worry on her face, Lianderthral rushed to assure her. "Yes, Myste, as you call her, is outside."

"Then I must see her, and we must leave quickly." Sariel sat up dizzily, but Lianderthral placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. She looked at it in surprise, not having expected such a personal touch from a stranger.

"I am afraid I cannot let you go, whether your mission is urgent or not," he said.

Sariel stared at him. Of all the things she had imagined to be obstacles, she had never expected something like this. "I really must insist," she said lamely.

But Lianderthral was already shaking his head. Sariel tried to speak as evenly as she could, although the stranger had provoked her temper. "My sister's life hangs by a thread," she told him, a little coldly. "I bid you thanks and farewell."

She staggered to her feet and reached for her saddlebags on the table besides the bed, trying to ignore the renewal of her pains. She rummaged through them, pointedly ignoring Lianderthral, who watched her silently. At last Sariel closed her packs, satisfied that all was there.

She grimaced as she looked down at herself. Her clothes were caked with dried mud. Her injures had not helped: the bandaging on her back was soaked and rust colored with dried blood, while the bandage around her wrist had loosened. Both badly needed to be changed. Nevertheless, she was glad Lianderthral had not tried to change her clothes or do anything rash.

Despite her state, there were more pressing concerns. Sariel took one of the candles and walked out of the room, along the tunnel-like corridor. The stone surroundings made her uneasy, reminding her of Belderon's fortress.

Lianderthral was about five paces behind her the entire way, but she never glanced back at him. Finally, she saw light ahead at the entrance to the caves. She reached it, but about two steps from the cave mouth, she ran into something hard—something _very_ hard, and…invisible.

Sariel gaped at the nonexistent thing before her. She tried to touch it and felt a smooth, cool barrier. For a moment she was convinced that it was just air. It was actually nice to touch, but also as unyielding as stone. _More power_, she thought, a sick feeling in her stomach. She moved her hand over the invisible wall, her senses telling her contradictory things. She had not forgotten what had happened at the Council, but she had not thought about it because she needed to be focused on the future, not the past. Galadriel's invasion of her mind…the fires that had burned the circle of trees…all of it made an unnamable dread fill her heart. Now here it was again, and she was certain it was no coincidence.

She whirled around and glared at Lianderthral, who leaned against the side of the cave entrance. He met her gaze unfalteringly.

* * *

"None of what happened to Sariel was truly her fault," Gimli was saying. "She is as much a victim as her victims. Maybe it was fate, destiny, or such things like that, but how could you blame her for trying to live?"

After a sleepless night of contemplation, Boromir, Gimli, and Arwen each seemed to have accepted the new truths about Sariel, to some extent. They did not say that they had forgiven her for her actions, but it was clear that they had come to terms with her past. Viewed in the context of her situation, her actions could be more easily understood, even if their consequences could not be dismissed. However, there was one whose anger had not softened in the slightest.

Now Arwen and Gimli exchanged looks with each other, united as they rarely had the opportunity to be. They had been walking toward Sariel's chamber when they met a silent Legolas. One look at his face was enough to inform them that he had definitely not forgiven Sariel for anything. They did not know that he was still seething over his fight with her, although their argument was the least of it. She had tried to kill him, after all, and had openly admitted to killing countless others.

Yet they were all surprised by the newest reason for his white-faced fury and the heat that blazed from his sapphire eyes.

"You need not bother to go to Sariel's chambers," he told them. "She is gone."

Three pairs of shocked eyes met his. "_What_?"

"She is gone. The guards at the stables were found unconscious, drugged. She may have left over a day ago, or perhaps even more. Her techniques were quite sophisticated."

They received the information with various levels of surprise, although Boromir's face darkened with anger and Arwen's brows drew together in worry. Though they conferred with Galadriel, the Lady had already heard about the new development and could only offer a few more details on Sariel's escape. It was clear that she had anticipated the possibility of such an occurrence, but had trusted too deeply.

A while later, Legolas found Boromir and Gimli in the stables, preparing their mounts for travel with grim efficiency. To his surprise, Gimli was readying Arod, whom he usually shared with Legolas. Vanidar, Gandalf, and Arwen were likewise with their steeds in other stalls nearby.

"What are all of you doing?" Legolas demanded, although it was more a heated statement than a question.

"It is fairly obvious, is it not?" Arwen said, not at all shaken by his rising temper. "Belderon needs to be stopped. Lessena is still in captivity. We agreed not to inform Sariel of her powers, but now she is gone, and a danger to both herself and others. It is impossible to predict what will happen accidentally when she confronts Belderon. The only reason why nothing has manifested before is because she has spent centuries in practice to control her emotions."

He stared at her, only half comprehending her words. Arwen was wearing rough travel clothes and there was a determined light in her eyes. Watching her hands in their swift, assured movements as they buckled and tightened straps, Legolas understood suddenly that Arwen would rather die than let her kin be slain or captured.

"Gandalf said she was a vessel of the elements," she continued, misreading his silence as argument. "Let me ask you, Legolas, what happens to a vessel when it cannot hold its contents?"

Arwen's clear eyes caught his and held the gaze, as if questioning Legolas's heart. _How much do you care for her? _they seemed to ask. _How much does she still mean to you?_

"You must choose," she said to him, voice exceptionally soft so that none of the others could overhear. "Legolas, will you go after her?"

There was a truth in her eyes that made him want to tear his eyes away from her, and yet Arwen's gaze remained calm and unwavering, as true as the steel of an Elven-crafted sword. Time seemed to slow for him; Legolas did not hear Míriel's restless whinny or see how Arwen stroked the black mare's neck to calm her. He only thought of Sariel in that moment, and he felt torn apart.

He wanted to shake Arwen for the unspoken query she had presented to him, to ask her why she was forcing him to recognize the strength of his feelings. And yet, and yet…there was a stubborn, proud part of his mind that despised Sariel, that could not forgive her. He remembered all too clearly the swift, sudden pain of betrayal. She was a murderer. How could he accept that, no matter what reasons were behind it?

Without realizing it, he had already brought Arod out. Legolas mounted smoothly, knowing he had made his decision. Riding Míriel, Arwen watched him with an unfathomable expression and the others proceeded as if they had never doubted the outcome of his choice.

* * *

"I told you, I am afraid I cannot let you go until I hear your story and you learn mine," Lianderthral said implacably. Although Sariel rarely grew angry, she fought to keep her temper now.

"You are no wizard, and yet you can do this," she said, her hand gesturing at the invisible wall. "However, you do not know who I am, nor _what_ I am, and I suggest you let me go."

"I am afraid that I know you better than you know yourself," he said, unfazed by her implied threat.

"Perhaps I did not make myself clear enough," Sariel retorted coldly, ignoring his presumptions. "I am not like any other Elf you have ever known. I will not hesitate to kill you."

"You are indeed unlike any other," Lianderthral agreed, his voice just as cool. "And yet we are more alike than you can imagine. As for your self-declared status, you will need to reach me first if you are intent on my destruction."

No sooner had he stopped speaking than a circle of flames sprung up around him. Sariel could not stop herself from instinctively drawing back. "Perhaps this can be your first lesson," Lianderthral said with a slight smile.

Sariel nearly snarled in frustration. She reached down and took a dagger from her right boot—not her stiletto, but a plain Elven-knife of good steel. With deadly accuracy, she threw it at him, aiming for his left shoulder rather than his heart. To her surprise, when the knife reached the flames, it acted as if it had hit something it could not pierce, and dropped to the ground.

Undeterred for long, Sariel drew Aurielen from its scabbard and rushed at the flames, but the sword rebounded with a ringing sound and the noise of metal striking metal. Already she was beginning to think that her other weapons would be of no use, but Sariel tried them all anyway, unwilling to admit defeat to such an arrogant adversary. Humiliation made her anger burn all the stronger. She had never admitted what she was to any stranger, and there was a double blow in the fact that her self-proclaimed skills were absolutely useless against him. She stopped after some time, a little tired from her exertions and extremely frustrated.

"Have you given up yet, Sariel?" If looks could have inflicted wounds, Lianderthral would have been in a mortal condition. Sariel had never been in such an infuriating situation as she was now. She was apprehensive because her attacks had never been deterred in such a way and in addition to that, her blood fairly thrummed with the urgency to _go_ whenever she thought of Lessena. An observer might have laughed at the nearly comical scene. To Sariel, however, this was a deadly serious business, and it seemed that Lianderthral shared her views.

"You see, Sariel, I saved you not because I was caught in the rainstorm and found you," Lianderthral finally told her. It was too childish to pretend not to listen, so she settled for pinning him with an angry stare.

"You saved me only from a fall," she said, but he continued as if she had not spoken.

"Sariel, you are as I am—an Elf with extraordinary powers, but different from those of a wizard or of other beings. We draw our strength from the land and we channel the nature of the four elements."

He was so serious and it was such an extreme statement that she could find no humor in it. Sariel looked at him now with scorn. "Your wits are addled," she said scathingly. "I have never had any sort of power in my life." _Or else I would not have let Galadriel invade my mind and rip my memories apart_, she thought bitterly.

"How would you explain how I blocked your attacks?"

"I do not know, but I have known others that have gained power through sacrifice and death. Perhaps you are one of those."

"Do not be a fool," he retorted sharply, stung that she would accuse him of such.

Before her disbelieving eyes, it was as if Lianderthral somehow drew in energy from everything around him. There was nothing for the eye to see, and yet there was so much that could be felt. Sariel had seen Galadriel, and the Lady of the Wood had worn power like a cloak. Lianderthral, however, did not wear any sort of power. It was as if he _was _the power, and the intensity in him made it uncomfortable to look in his direction. Everything seemed brighter, harsher, and sharper—the angles of his face, the gold of his hair and emerald of his eyes, the feral beauty definition of his features.

"Sariel, have you never felt it fill you?" he asked, his voice gentle and so at odds with the savagery that seemed to emanate from him.

She shuddered, about to deny it, and yet she hesitated. In all the chaos after Lorianiel's death, there had been an odd sense that had filled her body, at once calming and provoking. She had never felt as alive, and yet she had not wanted to think about it, fearing that she was like Belderon—that she had finally learned to thrive off death and off the stolen souls of others, even that of her own mother.

"Of course not," Sariel finally replied, but her voice lacked firmness.

"Sariel, I hope you will cooperate. You are aware by now that you will be trapped here until you give me some answers. I suggest that you begin with the reason why you were out riding in a thunderstorm. How did you sustain your injuries?"

She wanted to rage against him, but there would be no use. Had she escaped from one sadistic master only to be enslaved to another? She wanted to cry, but there was no use. Caught between all her emotions, Sariel wanted nothing more than to hurt the handsome Elf before her somehow, and the only way she could do it would be to shock him.

"Would you be surprised if I told you that the Elves of Lórien gave me those wounds on my back?" she said caustically. "The Lady Galadriel herself ordered that I would be whipped nearly to death."

There was a brief flicker of surprise in his eyes, but otherwise, Lianderthral's countenance was impassive. "What did you do to deserve such treatment?"

She was silent at first, but then spoke. "I come from my uncle Beliron from Lake Evendim, Nenuial in the Elvish tongue. I was sent to Lórien as a messenger to inform Galadriel of alarming activities by the orcs. After a misunderstanding, I suffered the punishment of the Elves and I finally managed to escape."

"So, you are not just a self-declared assassin, but also a liar." Lianderthral was mockingly polite, as if bored with her. "Now, the truth, if you so please."

He made her helpless as Belderon had so often made her helpless. For the first time since encountering Lianderthral, Sariel was afraid and heartsick, ready to give up. She had spent too much time here and would possibly be caught, or would not be in time to save her sister.

Subdued, Sariel began with the death of her father and told her tale, ending with her recent escape from Lórien. She was not one to indulge much in self-pity, but even recounting the events forced her to hold back her tears. And she had not even spoken of Legolas at all, beyond the fact that he had been her target, and she had failed to kill him. She made it sound as if it had been an error on her part that had resulted in failure.

"So," Lianderthral mused when she finally finished. Evidently he was absorbing the information, for his eyes were distant although he looked in her direction. He seemed to be thinking furiously.

"Well, it is only fair that I tell you why I saved you," he said at last. "It was no coincidence that I was out in the storm and that I happened to find you. I was looking for you."

"You were looking for me?" Sariel repeated, surprised. "Why? You do not even know me."

He smiled wryly. "I know you, Sariel, be assured of that." With those words, he began to tell her of his old mentor, Numinar, and how both he and Numinar had been discovered to have powers that few others could have imagined. Sariel, Lianderthral explained, would be the third that he knew about.

"After Numinar's death, I could not bring myself to abide in Rivendell, so I left. I dwelt in Lothlórien for a while and then came here, where I have resided ever since," he said. "Recently, I have felt something calling to me. The fear and worry I felt during the storm was almost intolerable, as if I somehow knew that your life was in danger. It was either that I find you, or I would lose you completely."

His voice softened at the last few words, and Sariel turned toward him just as he turned away, but she thought that his voice had roughened with genuine feeling, and saw him as an Elf again, not a monster. _Not Belderon_, she reminded herself. _Only an Elf, one whose loneliness even I can sense_.

"I do not believe it all," she said finally, since he seemed to be waiting for a response from her. "You have explained everything very clearly, and yet I cannot think of myself as one of these special Elves, doomed to forever be a danger to the world around them and constantly fearful of the destruction they could cause."

"Is it so very different from what you already experience as an assassin?" Lianderthral asked. The question stopped her cold.

"What are you going to do now?" Sariel asked, unwilling to dwell on it.

"Go with you," he said simply, almost carelessly. "Lessena is still enslaved by Belderon, is she not? You wish to rescue her, of course."

Sariel gaped at his casual tone, but he continued before she could speak. "If I had no faith in you, I would have never believed that Belderon would be like this. I knew him a long time ago when he was a Lord, well liked and respected."

Another connection to Belderon. Sariel looked at Lianderthral, feeling the threads of her world unravel and come together again in new and dangerous ways. "King Thranduil ordered his son executed," she said. "It drove him mad."

"When a heart breaks, a person changes." Lianderthral waved a hand over the invisible wall and Sariel reached out to find that it was air again. It could have all been a hallucination, but she knew better when presented with such proof. "Tomorrow morning we start out. I know these mountains well and there is a pass that will save us some time."

"You do not mean to truly—"

"I _always_ mean what I say," Lianderthral interrupted smoothly. He lounged against the stone wall with a predatory grace and although it was a simple movement, Sariel fought a shiver. Her heart beat a little faster than normal, fear and attraction combining as if she were the victim in a game of cat and mouse. The words came out of her mouth in a rush.

"What if I do not wish for you to come with me? None of this involves you."

"Ah, but it does, Sariel." There was something to the way he said her name, some sort of extra care in the pronunciation of the syllables which made it feel as if he had personally named her. "You see, you need to learn to control those powers of yours before they control you. As the only one in Middle-Earth who can teach you, I think it is safe to say that you are my student now."

"I do not have the _time_ to be taught!" she protested.

"Yes, but if you do not learn, you will most likely die before you even reach Nenuial." Lianderthral said this so matter-of-factly that Sariel was rendered wordless for a moment. "Your powers are not something to be dismissed, Sariel. They can kill as easily as a misaimed arrow. So, it is as simple as that. We will start off early tomorrow, preferably at dawn."

"But—" Sariel started, but subsided at his glance. Absurdly, she wanted to point out that he was a stranger and treating her far too familiarly, that he had somehow forgotten the fact that she killed others for a living. _But isn't that exactly what you want? _she questioned. _To be accepted only as Sariel, neither as the assassin, nor as Belderon's pet?_

"I suggest you think about it and rest," he said, putting his hand briefly on her shoulder. It was gone before she could even think to shrug it off. "I will sleep on the ground, as you have been and currently are occupying my bed."

He said it offhandedly, but Sariel felt heat creep up the nape of her neck at the words. She had never been so completely dumbfounded. Lianderthral, no doubt about it, was someone to be carefully studied. He had charm, grace, and a suavity that was very hard to get around. Despite herself, she trusted him almost instinctively—enough, at least, to temporarily go along with his decisions. She had never been put at ease with someone so easily, especially when she had started out attempting to seriously hurt him.

When she offered to sleep on the floor, Lianderthral chivalrously objected. Sariel did not know what to make of it, so she gave up. There were bigger things to worry about and since Lianderthral could jail her if he wanted to, it was best not to oppose him. Like it or not, it seemed he was going to accompany her.

_Just as well_, she reflected later as she was falling asleep. _I think he will be an asset._ Her first impressions of him were confused, but he seemed to be confident without being arrogant and she could not help wondering why he seemed so fascinating. Was it only that he was so unusual, so unlike anyone she would have ever imagined?

He had been fairly kind to her, giving her supplies so that she could care for her wounds, but he had respected her enough to let her do it all herself. His demeanor was calm, and yet everything in his general vicinity seemed to gain in intensity, and she believed it was not merely an effect of his powers. There was more to Lianderthral that met the eye, and she had no doubt that he would continue to surprise her.

In fact, there was so much about him which puzzled her that for once, she could forget to think about other things and other people, the mere thought of which could bring seemingly endless heartache and tears.

* * *

**A/N**: You already know what I'm going to say by now, right? Please **review **before you read on :) What do you think so far?

_Finalized July 2008_


	9. Fire and Water

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

Disclaimer: This story is written with utmost reverence to J.R.R. Tolkien, true master of Middle-earth. No copyright infringement intended.

Translations:

_daro_: stop!

**

* * *

Chapter 9: Fire and Water**

* * *

It was noon by the time Sariel and Lianderthral started out towards Nenuial, partially because it took much longer than expected for them to get ready, but mainly because Sariel spent much of the morning arguing with Lianderthral in hopes he would change his mind. Despite all her attempts to dissuade him from accompanying her, however, Lianderthral was implacable.

In the end, Sariel gave up, for no matter what she said and how outrageous her arguments, she could not seem to spark his temper. Arguing with him was like trying to hold a fish in her bare hands—she kept on losing track of her argument because he nonchalantly slipped into other subjects. Not only was she disconcerted by his relaxed mood, but she also had the feeling that he had learned far more about her than she had about him. It took two to argue, she found out, and it frustrated her to no end.

Lianderthral had a horse named _Sí__la Elen_, or _starshine _in Quenya. Sariel wondered at the name since the horse was darker than midnight, but did not ask. _Sí__la Elen_ was a beautiful stallion, however, with a delicate head, a proud, arched neck, and a silky coat. His ears were small and the tips pointed inward. Sariel had never seen his breed before but thought that he was particularly beautiful, and her opinion only increased when she learned that the horse was also bred for endurance

Despite her attempts to quarrel with him and the fact that Lianderthral was virtually a stranger, Sariel found herself enjoying his company, just as she had first thought she would. She realized throughout the first day that he was interesting to talk to, simply because he knew so much. He gave her new perspectives and challenged her mind to think in more sophisticated terms. Sariel had been educated by Belderon, but she had been limited by what he had deemed would be appropriate for her. In truth, what she had learned was very unbalanced. Lianderthral was the complete opposite of this; he seemed to know at least a little about everything, and more often than not, a great deal in a vast array of subjects.

Sometimes she found herself laughing gaily to one of his stories and was startled to hear her laugh ring out across the expanse of land. She could not get used to the sound of her own freedom, it seemed. Yet her breath would still catch and her throat tighten when she wondered whether Lessena, too, would have enjoyed Lianderthral's keen insights. Her sister's personality had always seemed bland and unexcitable to Sariel, yet how much of that was a result of Belderon's warping of her?

Sariel had had many years to imagine a different sister and mother. Sometimes she could barely remember how they really were, and other times she was sure that beneath their expressionless exteriors, the tiny flame of their spirit still lived on. But how long before it was extinguished completely by centuries of captivity? Wild birds often died when caged, Sariel knew. In the beginning, she had often tried to befriend the little creatures, birds and animals alike, only to find that they did not react to her as they had when she had lived in the forests of Lórien. It was one of the reasons why Myste was so beloved to her.

As to Lianderthral's opinions of her, Sariel could not tell. He was always charming, unfailingly polite to her, and chivalrous in an almost laughable manner. Sariel had never experienced anything like it and found it bizarre, given that he knew exactly what she was. He treated her as an equal and with casualness, but also, strangely, true consideration. It seemed like to Lianderthral, Sariel's life was worth something. She supposed he liked her well enough. Beyond that, however, skilled dissembler that he was, Sariel simply did not know, though not for lack of speculation on her part.

The days passed without event, but with the fatigue of hurried travel. Winter had brought with it cold temperatures and often rain, but no snow as of yet. They advanced at a steady, fast pace that would let them reach Nenuial in just a little less than a month. It was a time of abandonment for Sariel, even with worry for Lessena hanging over her like an ominous cloud. She was freer than she had ever been, and everything Lianderthral did seemed to remind her of that.

Everything seemed brighter, sharper, and clearer, as if the intensity around Lianderthral had mysteriously spread to include her as well. It was unbelievable how she learned to take pleasure in the smallest things—a warm campfire with a companion, the beauty of the flat, rolling plains around them, the fresh breeze in her face. It felt as if she had been reborn.

Once, Lianderthral disappeared from the camp in the evening. They had set up shortly before sunset and Sariel had made use of the fading light by washing her clothes by the stream. When she returned, there was no sign of him. Despite herself, she worried that something had happened to him, though it was silly of her.

Lianderthral was capable, after all, and while he was her companion, she had no business expecting him to inform her of everything he did. It only worried her simply because he had never been gone this long, without even leaving a sign of where he went or telling her beforehand. He was usually responsible and over the weeks they had developed a kind of rhythm to their travel, a partnership.

Sariel reminded herself that they had no obligation to each other at all. In the end, he was probably better off than she was—he had the power of the elements, after all. Though she had meant to reassure herself with that thought, it only made her worry more as she remembered the fate of his mentor, Numinar. There was nothing she could do, however, so she waited and busied herself by washing his clothes for him, though she was feeling far from charitable. She finished nearly every task she could think of and waited for about half an hour, then a full hour, as the time dragged by.

"Where _is _he?" Just as she made up her mind to go searching for him, Sariel heard light footsteps behind her. She whirled around, having prepared some harsh words, but forgot them all when she saw him.

Lianderthral appeared before her with a brace of fish, gigantic and gleaming wetly silver in the light. Sariel could only stare at him in amazement as he walked up with a slight smile and offered her the fish as if he expected her simply to reach out and take them. His hair was glossily wet as well and it had turned into a lustrous gold color. He should have looked terrible with his wet hair plastered to his forehead, but somehow it only highlighted the attractiveness of his facial structure.

It was also impossible not to see his obvious resemblance to another Elf she had known, whom she could never seem to keep far from her thoughts even when she was traveling farther from him every single day.

"Spotted some in the stream down there while I was bathing, and thought it would be a good idea to catch some," Lianderthral said casually. "I will have to admit, it took me slightly longer than I expected. I'm sorry for the delay, Sariel."

Sariel silently looked at him and the fish, and for a moment debated whether or not to yell at him, as she had been planning to, for making her so worried. Deciding that she would make a fool of herself if she started an argument about that—or indeed, about anything, since one usually had a difficult time arguing with him no matter what the subject—Sariel surrendered and pasted as sincere a smile as she could manage on her face.

Lianderthral gave her yet another one of his wry smiles, one that suggested that he now realized what had really been bothering her. As a seeming apology, he both cleaned and cooked the fish he had caught, and she was forced to admit that it made for a delicious meal. Along with the companionship, it was one of the best dinners she had had in a long time. Although Lessena was never far from her mind, Sariel found herself relaxing into the familiar banter she had developed with Lianderthral. He made her laugh about things that she had always thought were too painful to talk about, mostly by pointing out the absurdity of the sorry life she had led. She discovered that oftentimes comedy was simply tragedy viewed from a different perspective.

At night, when the fire died down to glowing embers, they both lay on their backs and looked up at the cold, but clear night sky. It was during those times that they talked, and this night was no different. After a while, Lianderthral seemed to wait for her to reveal another part of her life to him, and Sariel finally spoke of what she had been thinking about the entire day.

"Belderon calls me his Nightingale," she admitted in a soft voice, hardly able to say the words, and yet it was all right to confess things like that to Lianderthral. It was difficult, but she wanted to do it. She had never had anybody to share these things with, but he had known who and what she was from the start. She guessed that that was what made the difference. "I could never sing after that."

"Nightingales sing during both night and day, do they not?"

She turned her head so that she could see him out of the corner of her eye, and remembered how he had told her that he knew her better than she did herself, during their first meeting. It had not been so very long ago, but she had been spending almost every hour with him, and it seemed like she knew him for more than simply a couple of weeks. "Yes, but what of it?"

"Its song is particularly noticeable at night because there are few other birds that sing in those hours." Lianderthral sighed and turned on his side so that he faced her. His face was shadowed in the dim light from the embers.

"I am glad that there is only one of me," said Sariel fiercely. "I cannot bear the thought of others like me."

"Yes," Lianderthral said, closing his eyes briefly. "I can understand that. It is a noble thing to say, but a lonely road to walk."

"Are you glad that I have powers like yours, Lianderthral? That we are both the playthings of a nature both lovelier and more terrible than we can comprehend?"

He looked at her then, and there was a sadness in his eyes that seemed old. Sariel regretted asking the question, but it was too late. Seeing her expression, Lianderthral shook his head. "I would be lying if I said I am altogether unhappy," he said. "As you say, it is a power that is both lovely and terrible at times, and sometimes I wish for someone to share its beauty with. But it comes with a heavy burden, and I would not wish this on anyone, even less on someone I care for."

His words broke her out of her complacency and for the first time, Sariel definitively knew that he was more than a companion to her. Lianderthral had become her friend. She told him things because she wanted to, and he listened to her not out of politeness, but because he wanted to. She was unfamiliar with such reciprocity, though she thought of friendships like Arwen's—and other ones, more difficult to name still.

"Nothing is easy," she finally said. "Our meal tonight came at the expense of another's live. Is it so very different from what I have done to stay alive? And yet it _is_ so very different, and I am still Belderon's Nightingale. With one word, with one name, he has silenced me completely."

"Belderon does not understand the lives of the nightingales, then," Lianderthral said with a chuckle, despite the depressing turn of the conversation. "For it is only the unpaired males that sing regularly at night and their nocturnal songs serve to attract a mate."

"Then it is just as well that I no longer sing." Lianderthral's observations seemed both funny and sad. Sariel paused for a moment, swallowing hard before she continued. "My song would serve only as a fatal attraction, for Belderon controls even my heart."

"Does he?" asked Lianderthral. "I think not. However he controls your heart, it is still yours to give in the end. However he controls your song, there will always be other hours in which your voice can be heard."

"And who will die for those hours of my song?"

"There is a story," he said thoughtfully, "of a nightingale who sacrificed himself for the sake of love. He pitied a student who had not the means to woo the girl he loved, so the nightingale impaled himself upon a rose-thorn, so that his heart's blood may transform it into a rose, which the student could give to the girl."

"Did the girl accept the student?"

"No." Lianderthral was quiet for a moment. His green eyes were dark and seemed unwontedly serious. "But do you think the sacrifice was in vain?"

"Yes," Sariel said instantly, and then wondered whether her mother's death was in vain, since it had come about because her intended target's life had been spared. Was it an even trade, Lorianiel for…

"I think it is not." He sat up and took a stick of firewood, stirring up the embers and starting a little flame again.

"Why?"

Lianderthral gazed at the flame, avoiding her eyes. "I do not think you are ready to hear it. Someday, ask me again, and I will tell you."

With that, Sariel had to be content. They shared a thoughtful silence for a little longer, and her thoughts returned to the events of the day, and her uncharacteristic worry for her missing companion. He had only been gone for a few hours. It seemed silly now, and by the end of the night, she had almost completely forgotten how afraid she had been, just for a little while, that Lianderthral had tired of her company and had simply decided to leave. To her surprise, though, she was not the only one thinking of the incident.

"You looked so surprised when I came back with the fish," Lianderthral said. Did you enjoy it after all?"

"Yes." Sariel closed her eyes, her mind full of thoughts but wishing to escape to the easiness of sleep. "Thank you, Lianderthral," she murmured, feeling warm and tired. He seemed to understand that she was grateful to him for much more than just one dinner.

* * *

The first time they truly fought—the first time Lianderthral argued back—was over the matter of Sariel's wounds. Her wrist was healing in its stiff cast and most of the bruises and other such wounds had faded, some leaving pale white scars that slowly blended in with her skin. It was her lacerated back that started the argument. She had been removing the dirty bandages with difficulty when he had returned to the camp after fetching fresh water from a stream a few miles away.

"Sariel, let me help. I can bandage it for you." Lianderthral made as if to touch her shoulder and Sariel shied away. She knew without seeing it herself that the wounds looked raw and would scar badly. For a moment, Lianderthral looked taken aback by her abrupt rejection, but his expression smoothed out so quickly that she could not be sure if she had misread it.

"Wait, then. At least use this to prevent infection." He went to rummage through one of his saddlebags, opening the various pockets until he fished out a small bottle. When he gave it to her, Sariel saw that it was filled with clear salve. Opening it, she detected a slightly bitter aroma with a wood scent—she was familiar with the medicine. However, she could not apply it herself on the gashes on her back. That was what started the fight, since Sariel refused to accept help and Lianderthral was equally determined to help her.

Lianderthral won, of course. Sariel capitulated soon enough, half because she had been surprised by the fact that he had argued with her so heatedly over something she considered to be unnecessary and humiliating. From then on, she consented to his help with all her injuries. Still, as her back healed, it scarred terribly. There were ugly welts as thick as her fingers despite the care they had both taken.

Sometimes she ran her hands over the thick, raised skin and remembered the shocking pain of the lash. Lianderthral told her that the scars were barely noticeable in color but she knew that he was lying. She stood one morning with her back to a fairly still pool of water and examined the reflection by looking over her shoulder. Though the angle was awkward, she had seen enough to know that the scars were an unattractive reddish-purple color, standing out starkly in contrast to the rest of her pale skin.

Yet all in all, she did not mind them much, as long as they ceased to hurt and did not affect her in other ways. The scars on her body were nothing compared to the scars of the soul, and it was those that Lianderthral helped her with the most, in their conversations. He seemed to be either a gifted counselor, or the very best of friends, or perhaps both. She grew to anticipate their talks despite her dread of bringing up her past life.

Lianderthral himself continued to be fascinating. He knew so much and was so willing to teach her. Sariel's respect for him grew with each day even as she became more comfortable with him. He was the strangest of contradictions, both intense and calm, like he possessed some sort of sublime grace under pressure. Maybe it was not so much as the world being brighter, sharper, and clearer, but that her perspectives on life had changed.

It was Lianderthral who had taught her to really _look _at things, rather than to simply see them. She learned to look at things that she had seen all her life, even things like the ruby-throated hummingbirds that frequently flitted between them whenever they passed an area with flowers. Generally, she paid such birds and animals little attention, but seeing how Lianderthral's gaze had been rapt, Sariel followed his line of sight to the tiny bird. She looked back at him, unable to believe that it was the bird that he looked at with such marveling eyes, with an expression as if he had not seen it ever before.

"Sariel, look!" he called out to her in a low but strong voice. "Think of how this little being has so much pure energy. Look at the delicacy of its feathers, the rapid blur of its wings, supporting its own weight seemingly effortlessly. There is so much life in this tiny package, each color so brilliant, demanding the attention of its mate. Hummingbirds are the jewels among the birds, small but exquisite, joyful and perfect for its place in the world."

At first, Sariel did not trust herself to reply to Lianderthral's sudden speech, dismissing his words for fanciful dramatics. But the words stuck in her mind and later, when she thought of the hummingbird again, its image came instantly and vividly into her mind. Nor was it only its appearance that she remembered, the way the sunlight glinted on its iridescent green and the jewel-like ruby at its throat, but she also remembered the exact way it hovered, perfectly suspended in the air.

It seemed as if now, when she looked about her at the world, there was a certain beauty to life that she had never seen before, as if the world she lived in now was different from before. Even the sunlight falling on a lush green leaf just so captured her attention, and she seemed never to have inhaled so deeply of the rich scent of the forest loam. Every one of her senses intensified, not because it was demanded of her during Belderon's harsh training, but because Lianderthral taught her how to let the world come to her.

Yet Lianderthral was her teacher in other ways as well. It had been clear from the start that his main priority was for him to teach Sariel about her abilities with the elements. However Sariel resisted, uncomfortable with the subject, Lianderthral managed to give her quite a lot of information just from their conversations. Eventually, he began to encourage her to try the things he had taught her about, especially in the few hours after they made camp but before they retired for the night. Most often, while their day's meal was cooking over the fire, or when Sariel had first watch and Lianderthral voluntarily stayed up late with her, they fell into the roles of student and teacher.

The more Sariel wanted to deny her powers, the more he made sure that she had ample proof before her eyes. When Sariel saw how useful some of the things she learned were, she could not help but want to know more. Every tool that she had at her disposal could one day be turned against Belderon; Sariel never forgot that her ultimate goal was not freedom, but the ability to return and take her vengeance on the one who had broken her family.

There was a fire in her veins that, oddly enough, seemed more than a whimsical notion of Sariel's. The easiest lesson for her had been the night that Lianderthral had taught her to summon flame, warning her that all fire needed something to burn—whether it was from her own energy, or the stored potential in the wood. Sensing her interest, Lianderthral decided to continue with similar lessons, showing her the next night how to call a fiery light that she could hold in her hand should she need illumination. This, two, came with many warnings.

"Fire, out of the four elements, is the easiest to summon but one of the hardest to control." Lianderthral breathed onto Sariel's flame, making it flicker. When he blew a more forceful gust of air, Sariel expected it to go out, but the flame only fed on the air and burned stronger. "It burns like an ordinary flame right now, but make no mistake, Sariel, it is drawing on your energy since you have provided it nothing else."

"It seems…stubborn," she said hesitantly. It seemed like the wrong kind of word to use for something that was not alive, but Lianderthral smiled at her understandingly.

"It is," he said. "It also seems to be your talent, for you have an affinity for it. You must be extra careful, Sariel, not to let it consume you."

"How is it hard to control?"

"Playing with fire is always dangerous, and more so when you have abilities like ours." Lianderthral's green-eyed gaze seemed to assess her every weakness and flaw. It was not often that Sariel felt uncomfortable around him, but this was definitely one such case—and he was not finished yet.

"I would not use it for trivial things," Sariel started to assure him, and was surprised when she was curtly cut off.

"Good. Losing control of a flame, even a small one, can be a disaster. It may look like an ordinary fire, Sariel, but the ones we start are not and will not act ordinary. The fire can survive in many mediums and find different sources of fuel. It will not go out easily. Since fire also spreads quickly and can cause unspeakable harm, you must never forget that it can be considered the most volatile of the elements."

It was a somber reminder that despite all the practical appliances that Lianderthral taught her, their abilities were far from normal. Sariel snuffed out the flame in her hand, suddenly not wanting to admire its heatless light. Whether because of her sudden shift in mood or because of her actions, she almost felt as if she had cut off a part of herself. For the barest second, it seemed like their campfire flared to life. Lianderthral caught it out of the corner of his eye, but it returned to normal in the next heartbeat.

"What do _you _have an affinity with, Lianderthral?"

"Water, of course," he replied, and then smiled at her. "It would seem we are opposites."

* * *

At night Sariel and Lianderthral took turns at watch although nothing had troubled them since the start of the journey. Soon they were in the South Downs and all remained fairly calm. After Sariel's beginning studies on fire, Lianderthral made sure to impress her with a healthy respect for the power of the elements. Air was flighty and kind to the beginner, yet she never forgot about the devastation left by some whirlwinds. Water caused flooding and, in its colder forms, had the potential for causing even more death. Even Elves, so resistant to cold, risked their lives in the most extreme temperatures.

It was Lianderthral's turn for standing first guard. He was sitting with his back to a tree, leaning against it. Sariel was supposed to be sleeping, but she lay on her back and stared up at the starry night sky, tracing out constellations and imagining the ones she did not know. Softly, she began to hum and before she realized it, she was singing. The song was not complicated, but was slow and emotional. Although she did not remember all the words, they were not necessary.

"You sing well," Lianderthral said quietly when she let the last note fade without continuing.

Sariel sat halfway up, propped on her elbows. "Thank you, but my voice is nothing unusual among the Elves." She thought of Legolas's voice, blending effortlessly with hers as they sang together, transforming her efforts into something more extraordinary. Before the unwanted memory changed her mood, she deliberately sought to replace it. "Will you sing with me?"

Lianderthral sighed and did not answer. While Sariel waited, he found a more comfortable position by the tree and finally looked at her again. His arms were crossed and the defensiveness of the posture made her curious.

"Lianderthral?"

"I am sorry, Sariel, but I cannot."

About to inquire further, Sariel stopped herself, knowing that it would be rude of her to pry. To her surprise, Lianderthral volunteered the information.

"It is not by choice," he said. "I cannot carry a tune." Seeing her look of surprise, he shrugged helplessly. "I do not share the usual Elven talent for song. I can play the flute and most other instruments well enough, but when it comes to singing, I simply cannot."

"Cannot?" Seeing the shadow of past hurt on Lianderthral's face, Sariel's question was hesitant. "But when you were young, did no one teach you?"

"Many different Elves tried, and many times. My parents thought it was strange and indeed, the other Elves kept on trying. No one could find anything wrong with my voice, but it is nigh impossible for me to carry a melody."

Sariel nodded, but in the silence that followed, she continued thinking about it. How odd, that Lianderthral had such a melodious voice naturally when he spoke, but could not sing. She thought there was more than one note of wistfulness in his voice, but could not be sure. Perhaps he had been ridiculed. How must it have been for him, growing up?

Music was a constant among the Elves and their love of song and poetry was renowned. It was part of the culture, part of their identity. Nearly everyone participated, from the greatest leaders to the youngest child. Had Lianderthral been an outcast in more than one way? Even before the Elves had discovered that he was attuned to the elements, it seemed like he had been separated from his peers by this obvious and inescapably painful way.

Sariel looked at Lianderthral in a different light again, wishing she could say something to comfort him when she saw the way his expression had turned bland and hidden. He had as much as admitted one of his weaknesses to her, but she did not know how to accept his trust for the gift that it was. It was strange, every time she thought she knew him, there was something else to surprise her yet again.

He had an almost uncanny way of drawing out Sariel's childhood stories, but had rarely offered any of his own. Even when she had met him, he had been living alone in the mountains. From what she remembered from his story about Numinar and himself, Lianderthral had been living in the mountains for over five hundred years. Did he truly enjoy such solitude, or had it also been not of his choice?

"The only thing I had with Belderon in all those long years was my singing," Sariel said after a long silence. "But it seems you did not even have that."

"Ah, but you can be my voice now." Lianderthral shifted again and looked out into the night so that Sariel could not see his face, laced as it was with shadows. The wind made the leaves of the trees rustle, creating shifting patterns of darkness and light.

"In any case, the song is only an opportunity," she said. "After all, the nightingale's death still could not buy love."

Watching him, she caught a glimpse of Lianderthral's quick smile. "In any case, the nightingale's death is only a tale."

Sariel murmured consent, but she could not forget how he had looked, a mix of unhappy and resigned. _How can he stand the loneliness and isolation?_ Sariel wondered. _Has he shut himself away to protect others from his powers, or to protect himself from others?_

_Not by choice_. She turned the words over and over in her mind. She knew now why Lianderthral had not rejected her merely because of her past. He knew all too well what it was like to be blamed for something over which he had little control. She knew without him telling her that Lianderthral had chosen to tell her these things, these secrets that he had most likely never revealed to anyone else.

Looking up at the stars, Sariel felt too much. Shapeless emotions welled up inside of her, along with insuppressible, dangerous thoughts. If only she could take away his loneliness like he took hers away. If only she could be someone special to him, so that he knew he wasn't alone. Thoughts like that kept crossing her mind, making sleep evasive even though it had long since passed into Lianderthral's watch.

There was such a vast darkness above her, the pinpoints of lights seemingly so distant. Sariel opened her mouth and heard herself sing, the notes clear although ephemeral. She almost felt as if she were filling the emptiness with music.

Her thoughts drifted like the notes of her song, finding their way back to Arwen and the others, though these were the memories she did not want to have. The accusations they had exchanged during the fight seemed engraved into her memory. The heartache it brought her only strengthened her resolve to forget. With Lianderthral as her companion, this was easier to do than she had expected.

Sariel was stirring up the embers of the dying fire when she heard the cracking of dead leaves behind her. She froze, not daring to breathe, and heard a low snarl from somewhere behind her. Her hand went to her belt to draw her dagger as she whirled around to face the animal, taking a step back as she did so. A black wolf was crouched, ready to spring at her. Twin golden eyes glared at Sariel, but what made her blood run cold was the sound of rustling leaves all around the camp. She did not need to turn around to know that the entire pack had surrounded their camp.

Even so, she glanced across the fire behind her. A grey, wraith-like wolf had detached itself from the rest of the pack to stand next to Lianderthral's sleeping form. In the next moment, as she turned around to face her own opponent, the black wolf bared his teeth and growled, flinging himself at Sariel.

* * *

Legolas, Vanidar, and the others also made good time as they strove to catch up with Sariel. Arwen was almost always close to Legolas, trying to reason with him. When that proved to be nearly impossible, she drew out the story of Legolas's argument with Sariel, although the exact specifics were not discussed. In any case, Legolas grudgingly admitted that perhaps he had gone too far with his accusations. Keenly aware of Legolas's mood, Arwen thought that his temper was as much directed toward himself as toward Sariel.

He had, after all, probably driven her away. When pushed to desperate measures, Sariel had only acted as she thought was fit: she had escaped, deciding to fight Belderon by herself. Although Galadriel wanted to keep her at Lórien, Arwen had spoken with the Lady and knew that she would not have abandoned hope for Lessena to be saved. They spoke together in low voices as the others slept.

"At the least, you owe her an apology," Arwen said indomitably, unfazed by Legolas's alternating anger and hurt. "As do I."

"What would it change, Arwen?" Legolas rested his head in his arms, the weary line of his shoulders telling her that he was blaming himself for their separation. Though the journey to Lothlórien had been not quite three months, Legolas had spent nearly every day by Sariel's side. He had clearly grown accustomed to her constant presence.

"Legolas, no one can be sure of themselves in these matters. But at the very least, you must know that you likely hurt her just as much as she hurt you."

"I do not trust her, but my mind tells me one thing and my heart another." His voice was muffled, but Arwen caught the words all the same. There was no counsel she could provide for this, not when she was still haunted by her memories of Aragorn day and night. There was one thing she could say, however.

"She is alive," Arwen reminded him. "And as long as there is life, there is hope for change."

"She may be in danger," he countered. He had raised his head and now looked into Arwen's eyes, the bleakness in his own painful to see. "She journeys alone, under pain and duress. She cannot be thinking clearly."

Arwen reached out, letting her hand rest on Legolas's shoulder. "Neither are you, Legolas. But you must trust in yourself and perhaps, remember again how to trust in her."

He could say nothing to that, but everything in him rebelled at the thought of it. Had Sariel stopped herself from killing him, or had she only been unlucky enough to miss? It was the question that haunted him, one that he could not even voice to Arwen.

As the days passed and they crossed the mountains, Vanidar and Gandalf spent hours plotting out possible plans of attack. It was impossible to accomplish anything however, since they did not what Belderon's fortress was like, or any other details. Gandalf cautioned them against expecting too much of Sariel, for they did not even know if they could catch up with her before she attempted the rescue of her sister. Their knowledge of Belderon was scant and their guesses on Lessena's condition were at best uncertain.

One morning, they stumbled on a tiny band of orcs, only seven strong. The ensuing fight lasted a few bare moments, both sides surprised by the chance encounter. The companions reacted quickly and killed three immediately, along with the leader. The biggest problem in the end was that they could not decide what to do with the bodies. Although they should have been burned, the companions were pressed for time. In the end, they left them where they lay. The bodies were a grim reminder of what they would face in their attempt to defeat Belderon.

Legolas could not help but wonder how many of Belderon's bands of orcs that Sariel had met already. Although the companions had been uninjured, they had been almost evenly matched in number.

There was a new chill in the air that spoke of the coming winter, although there was no snow as of yet, except for that already in the mountains. Sometimes it rained and their band would ride, dripping wet and shivering, but no one dared to stop. Legolas's relentless urgency had caught on with the rest of them. The grey Elven cloaks Galadriel had given them shielded them from rain, but the horses churned up impossible amounts of mud.

On some nights, when the weather was good and the moon was bright, they would ride on, getting what little rest they could while still on horseback. On these nights, Gandalf would lead the way on Shadowfax. It was enough for Vanidar, Arwen, and Legolas, for they were Elves and needed little rest, but when the others could not go on or the horses faltered, they were forced to halt again. Legolas chafed at every delay and even Gandalf grew worried when day after day, they found no sign of Sariel's previous passage.

Often, they would discuss among themselves, guessing at what would happen if, or when, they were united with Sariel once more. Gandalf did not participate much in these discussions; he thought it a waste of time to attempt to foresee the future. He did, however, give suggestions as to how they tell Sariel about her power. It was now obvious that the secret could not be concealed from her. The wisest course would be for Gandalf to teach her before she could harm herself or anyone else unintentionally.

Legolas, like Gandalf, paid little attention to the companions' discussions about Sariel. When he spoke of her at all, it was always only to Arwen. In truth, they helped each other, for Arwen had not forgotten Aragorn, nor would ever forget. He was not so self-absorbed to not realize that brightness had faded from her little by little. After all, Elves often followed their loved ones into death. But both of them still had something to live for, and it seemed they would never find her again.

"I know you feel for her, you need not try to hide it from me," Arwen said one night, her words painfully direct. "But for your sake and for hers, for I still consider her a friend, do not hurt her. I know that when we all meet again, you will see that she has suffered as much as you have from her actions."

"I would never hurt her," Legolas said, angry at Arwen's implication.

She looked at him somberly and not a little sadly. "Legolas, do you not understand? You already have. We all have."

* * *

The wolf leapt at Sariel so swiftly that although she attempted to dodge it, he still struck her right side. Her dagger slipped out of her suddenly numbed fingers and with a desperate maneuver, she tried to force its muzzle shut. The gleaming fangs nearly snapped on her fingers. She rolled on the ground, trying to get away, but the wolf was still there, wrestling with her.

Again and again, the white fangs neared her throat, and again, she forced them away from her. Soon she was panting for breath, with shallow wounds where she had come in contact with sharp claws or teeth. Blood streaked her arms and nearly blinded her, but the wolf was nearly untouched.

Interestingly, none of the wolves moved to help the black wolf. It was clearly the alpha male, the leader of the pack. Even so, Sariel felt herself tiring and knew that she did not have many options left. The wolf's teeth neared yet again and she barely twisted enough to the side before they closed with a snap on empty air. _Lianderthral_, she suddenly remembered. _I must warn him! He may be still able to escape._

"Lianderthral!" she screamed as loudly as she could while the wolf fell back and circled her. "RUN! There are wolves…" her voice faded to a gasp as the wolf charged at her again, claws biting into her shoulders. Sariel tumbled to the ground and rolled, bringing her knee up into the wolf's soft belly. She heard another snarl farther away—_I have gotten Lianderthral killed—_just as the muscles in her arm trembled and gave out. The arm forcing the black wolf away went limp and she felt a frantic moment of pure fear as she saw the golden eyes coming nearer, the teeth ready to slash open her throat.

"_Daro__!_" she heard, and she was at once relieved that Lianderthral had not been killed, and giddily angry that he thought he could command the wolves to stop. It was such a foolish thing to do. He should have ran as soon as he realized the danger they were in. Yet suddenly, the air was quiet again, no snarls, just the sound of rustling leaves and running steps. _Running steps—_she thought, but was too tired to make the connection.

"Sariel…oh Valar, guard her!" Something was beside her and gripping her arms, calling out her name again and again. She opened her eyes just in time to see Lianderthral lean over her to listen for breathing. He seemed torn between shaking her and gripping her hands, fearing to exacerbate her injuries. Evidently he had not felt her breath when he checked for her pulse the usual way and was panicked at the thought of her presumed death.

His delicately tipped ear was right by her mouth and in the strange space that her mind was currently occupying, she had to firmly resist the urge to do something silly, like kissing it or licking the tip. It was something that, when she was a child, Vanidar would have dared her to do, and she would have accepted and proposed a dare right back. _Ask Galadriel if you can braid her hair, Vanidar_, Sariel thought.

"Lianderthral?" For some strange reason, she found herself smiling inanely, feeling very mad and foolish. Having been very near death seemed to make people feel wonderfully giddy afterward. She felt like laughing and did, not seeming to be able to stop. She had thought little scared her except for Belderon, as she was an assassin, but that moment of utter terror...that was new.

"Great Elbereth, you are all right. Sariel, I thought you were hurt, or dead!" Lianderthral exclaimed. His voice was unstrung with relief; he barely sounded like himself. "Sariel…"

"The wolves, the black wolf. I thought I would die. I thought I _did_ die." She could not stop herself from laughing, the shock of it still numbing her limbs. Lianderthral helped her up and then embraced her tightly. Not releasing her yet, he looked down at her in puzzlement.

"Why are you laughing?"

His eyes took in the paleness of her skin and he muttered a curse to himself. "You're in shock. I'm a fool, I have not even looked at your wounds."

Sariel ignored his concern. "Oh Lianderthral—I don't think I can explain it, really." Strangely enough, her words only made her laugh harder, even as Lianderthral wrapped her in his cloak. "Where are they, the wolves? Did you kill them _all_? Why did they obey you?" she said, tilting her head up to look into his eyes. The top of her head only reached his chin. _He was the exact same height as Legolas_. She brushed the thought away.

"No, none of them were harmed. I called out for the wolf to stop. The grey wolf is his mate, the alpha female. It is all right, Sariel. They will not try to attack us again," Lianderthral said. He led her to sit on a fallen log and started a fire, pouring out water from the canteens in order to boil it.

"Why did they attack? How did you get them to stop?" she asked, a little steadier once she took in his purposeful movements. When she began to shiver from her after reaction, she understood why Lianderthral had wrapped her with so many layers.

"They think we are invading their territory and that we will stay and hunt the game. Numinar was not only infamous for his powers. Since he lived in isolation for so long, he devoted his life to studying a pack of wolves that lived in his forest. After many centuries, he learned how to communicate with them using a variation of Sindarin. The words are Elvish, but the wolves were able to understand. I learned it from him." Lianderthral's speech was uneven and rushed, and Sariel peered at him through her suddenly heavy eyelids. Fatigue had settled completely over her, but she was still conscious enough to see how Lianderthral's hands shook as he wetted a piece of cloth in the water.

"Lianderthral?"

He ignored her query, stripping her of the layers of cloth without embarrassment, even when she sat before him in only her underclothes. Instead, his entire attention seemed focused on the current task of cleaning and treating the wounds that she had sustained from her fight with the black wolf. Some of the gashes still bled sluggishly.

"I told the wolves that we will be leaving at first light, and that they will have their territory and game back."

"Will they leave us alone the rest of the night?" Sariel asked cautiously, looking at the wolves still surrounding them. Hearing her speak so rationally seemed to calm Lianderthral, for his speech became more normal.

"Yes. In fact, Kaeloriel, the black wolf that attacked you, has asked to come with us. His name is from the language of the wolves rather than Elvish and means Black Shadow."

"He wants to come with us? What for, is he not the leader of the pack?" Sariel looked at Lianderthral in surprise, unable to believe that the wolf that she had thought would kill her now wanted to accompany them. She glanced at the wolf, shivering again when she found golden orbs staring back at her.

"He did not give a complete reason, but it has something to do with vengeance against Belderon, I believe. He somehow sensed your connection to Belderon, which is why he attacked. However, I assured him that you seek Belderon's death as well."

"But what of the other wolves?" Sariel flinched as Lianderthral slathered her cuts with a stinging salve meant to prevent infection. He finished up as quickly as he could, but the wounds burned now that the numbness was beginning to fade.

"Kaeloriel is the leader of the pack, but his mate will lead in his absence." Lianderthral shrugged as if to say it was not their decision to make. Sariel found it hard to accept that they were discussing the wolves in the first place.

"Do you think we should let him come with us?" she asked.

"There is no reason why we should not. He will not hurt you again, Sariel." Lianderthral finished the bandaging and finally met her eyes. His gaze was dark, unreadable. "You were so still. I thought I had lost you."

Summoning up a weak smile, Sariel reached out for his hand and squeezed it. "You are not nearly fortunate enough to be rid of me."

"But fortunate enough to meet you," he said, voice soft.

"You said a star shone on the hour of our meeting," Sariel said, her voice unintentionally dropping to a whisper. "But if we had not met at all, no one would have stopped the wolves from killing me."

Lianderthral said nothing, but reached out with his hand to cup her face before letting his hand drop away, as if suddenly aware that he had touched her without her permission. Despite the brief contact, the sensation sent another shock through Sariel. She stared at him, unable to decipher what his actions had meant. His hand had been incredibly gentle against her cheek. They had made many memories together and grown comfortable with each other, but this was different somehow.

Of her own will, she stood up and let her arms slip around Lianderthral, suddenly realizing that he had been afraid the one person he had become close to would leave him. _Not by choice_, she thought, the words echoing other memories. "Thank you for saving me," she whispered into his shoulder.

A warm hand touched her face again, this time raising her chin so that their eyes met. "I believe you would have saved yourself soon enough," he said wonderingly.

Sariel knew otherwise, but did not try to contradict his statement. "Thank you anyway, then," she said. She looked up at him, his appearance so similar to Legolas's, nearly identical. The most jarring visual reminder was that she gazed into emerald green eyes instead of blue. But the expression in them…she had seen it before, when she had not yet betrayed Legolas.

For the first time, Sariel let herself deliberately think of Legolas. It was still painful to think of him, but now she was also unsure. What if she had never loved Legolas at all? What if she had only been infatuated with him, with his attractiveness and talents, his competence and courtesy?_ The first close friendship I had ever experienced…what if that had led me to believe that what I felt was something more? _

She closed her eyes, shaking her head. Had her mother died for the fickleness of her own emotions, for her childish discovery of the connection that could develop between two people? Sariel remembered Belderon's rigid rules, remembered how he had drilled her again and again to shut herself off from all emotion because to do otherwise was to invite failure. In Lórien, with Legolas before her, Sariel had been certain that she had done the right thing, even at the expense of Lorianiel's life. But now she did not know what to think or what to feel.

Only to Lianderthral had she confessed her deepest secrets, consistently being her real self. She had exposed all her fears and hopes to his understanding ears and he had accepted her for what she was from the beginning, never seeking to make her feel as if her destructive actions were right, and yet never condemning her for them either. He understood the intricacies of her past and sought to help her with her moral confusion.

Only Lianderthral knew her entire story and understood how she feared Belderon just as much as she hated him. He had been beside her when she had almost been unable to force herself to ride back to Nenuial, to the stone prison she had lived in for more than a millennia. He knew how desperate she was, how she was willing to risk everything for a chance to save her sister and avenge her father.

He was like her, both of them caught in the cage that the world had fashioned around them. They were unable to fight the unseen forces of fate and destiny, so they could only bear it—the separation from others of their kind, the loneliness and the near madness that came with it.

Other Elves would look at her and see an Elf who had been twisted and brought up with violence from childhood, who had killed uncounted numbers of innocent beings. Other Elves would fear her or hate her for her affinity with the elements—for the threat she was to them.

Sariel could not even blame them. For all the lightness, wisdom, and good in the Elves, they were not immune to the troubles that plagued humankind. She had painfully spoken to Lianderthral of the derision and revulsion she had seen in Arwen's eyes, that day when she had knelt in the circle. She had cried out in pain more than once when Lianderthral changed the bandages for her back. If even Arwen, so close to her soul, had been unable to bear to face her…then who could?

She had not spent much time with Lianderthral, but every moment of it she had been close to him and she felt as if they knew the depths of each other's souls. It was _understanding_ that she had received from him, a more precious gift than any that she had ever been given.

_Who could? _

_Lianderthral could._

Sariel drew away from Lianderthral and he made no move to stop her. She felt as if she had committed yet another betrayal, but she could not tell whom she had betrayed or whether it was her own heart that she sought to shut out, along with the pain of the memories.

_I see a killer. You ask what I see when I look at you: I see a killer. What answer did you expect?_

It seemed that she remembered every word perfectly after all. Sariel trembled, closing her eyes against the image of his face, so cold and angry at the same time as he said it to her. Was that also what Lianderthral saw when he looked at her?

"Sariel? Are you all right?"

A hand gripped her shoulder and hearing Lianderthral's voice brought her back to the present with a jolt. Sariel opened her eyes and looked away quickly, unable to meet the concern in the direct, green-eyed gaze.

"It is nothing, just…an unwanted memory," she said.

"Was it…" For a moment, it seemed like Lianderthral wanted to ask more, but he had never pried into matters that Sariel had not brought up first. He hesitated, a strange look still in his eyes.

"Yes?"

"Never mind," he said, shaking his head as if chastising himself. "I am too concerned about appearances." Lianderthral laughed and Sariel tensed in surprise. It was a self-mocking sound, merciless and unhappy.

_What do you see when you look at me? _She longed to ask it, but now she was afraid of the answer. She wondered what he had been about to ask.

"We should get some rest, if we are to start out early tomorrow morning," Lianderthral said instead. "There is no need for someone to stand watch; the wolves are alert even in their sleep."

Yet Sariel thought that neither of them slept that night at all.

* * *

Lianderthral rose and doused the fire just as the sky was beginning to lighten with the breaking dawn. Sariel had fallen asleep only a scant few hours before and slept restlessly now. They generally would have started traveling with the advent of light, but Lianderthral chose not to wake her. She had been clearly exhausted and in some pain from the black wolf's attack and he was reluctant to force her up when a few hours would not make much difference.

The black wolf, sensing his movement, opened one eye lazily and noted his actions. Lianderthral smiled bitterly at Kaeloriel. "How can you choose to leave your mate behind, wolf? I have never known what it is to love, and yet tonight, I think I begin to understand."

He was silent for a long time, unwilling to speak his thoughts even to the wolf looking at him and listening. After a while, the black wolf opened his jaws so that his tongue lolled out in a wolfish smile, as if daring Lianderthral to clarify.

"It is the defiance of reason," Lianderthral said to him. "It is the knowledge that when she is silent and her eyes are dark with pain, she is thinking of some other, and yet being unable to think of anything else but her."

The wolf gazed steadily at him; Lianderthral did not even care if he understood what he was saying or not.

"Is it the one that so resembles me?" he asked, glad the wolf could not give him an answer even if he chose to reply. "Is he the one who hurt her so much, even beyond what the madness of her master did to her? And does he return her feelings, whatever they may be in truth?"

He laughed softly, bitterly. "All I want is to help her. And sometimes, sometimes I cannot stop myself from wondering if we were brought together for a purpose. I never thought I would find another like me." He turned from the fire and looked into the golden eyes of the black wolf.

"What about you, Kaeloriel? Are you part of this fate too? Why did you choose to come with us, leaving your pack vulnerable to attack during this difficult winter? What is your reason—why?"

The wolf remained stubbornly silent, though his ear twitched a casual dismissal. Lianderthral sighed. "Even you will not speak to me. But I know wolves mate for life, and if your mate left the world, you would take no other to share your life."

Kaeloriel was evidently not a very sympathetic listener. To Lianderthral's amusement and not a little annoyance, when he looked over again the wolf had fallen fast asleep, or at least appeared to have done so.

Tomorrow would begin another day of journeying, and meanwhile, they had to come up with a plan for dealing with Belderon. They could not simply charge into the fortress and attempt to rescue Lessena. Perhaps something with fire…

Lianderthral shut his eyes tiredly. Yes, fire, so easy to summon and so impossible to control or to direct. Sariel's affinity with the element that was the opposite of his own had seemed to be an amusing coincidence. Yet now, there was nothing but danger in the fire that burned through him, slowly consuming him until it seemed that all the deep, still waters inside of his soul threatened to revolt.

* * *

**A/N**: This was one of the chapters I changed the most, as the original introduction of Lianderthral was less than spectacular. Okay, so it was downright terrible. Anyway, please **review** and tell me what you think. Thanks!

_Finalized August 2008_


	10. Estel

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas **

ElveNDestiNy

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. DO NOT plagiarize. More than one person has regretted trying it.

Pronunciation Guide

Aradrywn: AIR-ah-drin

Kaeloriel: Kay-LORY-el

Translations

_Estel_: hope; also the name given to Aragorn by Elrond

* * *

**Chapter 10: Estel**

* * *

Hair the color of dark gold glinted as Belderon studied the mirror in his hand. Instead of reflecting his image on the liquid silver surface, the mirror showed a lone man riding ahead of countless orcs. The mirror was limited in size, but it captured the images with ease. Light shone eerily off the silver edges on the moving mass of blackened armor. Here and there, the menacing colors of darkness and war were relieved by green forest. Roughly one-fifth of massive host was riding back to Nenuial, for Belderon had summoned them himself.

The original plan for the attack on Mirkwood would need to be changed to accommodate the delay. Belderon ignored the orcs and focused on the man, examining him as closely as he could from the wavering picture. Aragorn had remained alive and under his control, ready to fight against the very people he had once loved. Even to Belderon's perceptive eyes, there were no indications from Aragorn that hinted of death. He looked like a living man, not a corpse—in fact, he still looked like a king. The only difference now was that he obeyed his master without thought, becoming a weapon just as deadly as Sariel, but with a different function. After all, Sariel was an assassin, used for independent work. Aragorn had the inborn gift of leadership.

Even so, Belderon was not pleased. The effort of bringing Aragorn back to life and blocking his memories had cost him more dearly than he had expected. At first, Belderon had reveled in his unexpected abilities. He had believed that life and death was his to control, a game for him to play as he wished. However, he soon realized that he could not make an army of the dead as he had imagined. Even with the power he gained from those he captured and killed, the process drained him, and subsequent trials had revealed that it did not always work as well as it had with Aragorn. He had tried bringing a captured Elf back to life, only to discover that he had not been able to control the Elf's mind. The result was that Belderon had wasted precious time and energy and the Elf now occupied one of the dungeon cells.

It had taught Belderon one important thing, however. As far as he knew, there was no way to kill his victims a second time. Once brought back to that in between state of mortality, it seemed that the Elf, like Aragorn, would forever exist as the neither living nor dead.

Belderon had considered using Lessena as the subject of his next experiment, believing her mind to be easily broken and controlled, but decided against it in the end. He could wait; his revenge had waited for centuries, and haste would only weaken his plans. Lessena was still useful to him. Sariel would soon be back, along with the foolish band from Lórien which chased after her.

Mithrandir, now, would require some thought. Belderon wondered uneasily if anyone else accompanied Sariel. He had felt something strange the last time he had tried to connect with her through the hourglass vial that even now she did not have the power to remove. Despite his attempts, it was as if Sariel had been temporarily blocked from his influence. He could not determine whether it was a result of her will or another's.

When Sariel arrived, he would offer her Lessena's complete freedom in return for her surrender. She had proven time and time again that she would cave into his demands. Despite what he had done to her, he had never truly lied or broken faith with her. She knew it, too. He would use that bit of naïveté to his advantage now—because although he had kept all his promises in the past, the future was always open for change. Once Sariel was within his grasp, Belderon intended to kill her and then perform the ritual over her, making her one of the living dead as he had done with Aragorn. He did not want her skills to go to waste, but her inherent rebelliousness had caused too much trouble already.

Belderon put his mirror face down. Sariel was still bound to him by blood-oath, and there was no way for her to break that bond except by death—hers, her assigned victim's, or his own. Although something was interfering with his connection to her, he had no doubt that the vial with their mingled blood still hung around her neck.

He looked at the map spread out before him, seeing more than the carefully drawn ink that detailed the geography and terrain. As Thranduil's advisor, he had planned many battles against the evil that had once entered Mirkwood when it had fallen under the shadow of Dol Guldur. Perhaps had he not been absent for such extended periods as a result of his duties, Faldelin would not have succumbed to madness, pressing his unwanted attentions on the princess. Perhaps if Belderon had been a true father rather than one simply in name…but even the lack of both the mother who had died in childbirth and the father who served his king more than he served his family did not explain why Faldelin had gone against everything he knew, against the very nature of the Elves.

_Perhaps. Perhaps not. _Belderon quelled his thoughts. Bitterness over the death of his son and his desire for vengeance had changed him. In the end, he had chosen son over king, and for what? Thranduil had humiliated him for his son's crimes, had stripped him of rank and power. For years, he had turned these thoughts over and over again in his mind, watching as the Men and Elves and other races of Middle-Earth rose and fought to defeat Sauron. He had hidden in his hollow mountain, biding his time with Sariel…

If Aragorn's orcs captured Sariel as they returned, it would simplify his plans even further. One assassin, no matter how strong, had no hope of standing up to his thousand armed and trained orcs. Belderon was not done with her yet.

All his work was coming together at long last. He imagined it as a delicate flower unfolding, petal by petal unfurling until the whole was suspended in its blooming state. There was a certain beauty in his actions, akin to that of a long meditated strategy in chess or the prolonged tension when a predator stalks its prey. Excitement flowed through his veins like _miruvor_, the clear cordial of the Elves. He could almost taste it, or was it only anticipation that gave him such a renewed vitality and sense of purpose?

When Sariel came, the game would truly begin.

* * *

Sariel shivered and gritted her teeth, but tremors still shook her body despite her greatest efforts. No amount of clothing could have shielded her from the harsh winter wind and the bitter cold, sinking deep into her bones until they ached with fatigue. For the past week, she and Lianderthral had suffered through the endless slow, their natural endurance waning in face of the forces of nature. Even Elves were not made to withstand such temperatures or conditions.

The first two days had been lovely, the plains blanketed with a sheet of white. Sariel had believed that it was a welcome respite from the rain that turned everything into mud. In Belderon's mountain fortress, she had welcomed the snow for what it could cover. As Belderon ravaged the land around his stronghold in preparation for his army of orcs, winter had marked a very temporary reprieve, a few days when Sariel could pretend that there was something other than the reality she had to face every day.

It was different when one had to travel through the snow. Sariel's childish enthusiasm had quickly died when she realized how much it would slow their journey. Both of them could skim the top of the snow, but the horses struggled and foundered until they dismounted and led them by hand. She could summon fire as Lianderthral had taught her, but at a heavy cost to her own energy, for there was no fuel. There were no trees in sight for leagues and the grass was wet and deeply buried under snow.

Sariel licked her wind-chapped lips, knowing that it would have felt painful but for the fact that they were so numb. She was hunched over Myste, both trying her best to reduce the wind's force on her and to share her horse's warmth. It was times like this when she glanced at Kaeloriel, tirelessly running ahead of them, and envied his thick black coat of fur.

The nights were the worst. They had to sleep on the frozen ground with only the warmth of the horses and the wolf to share. Or rather, _only _the horses, since Kaeloriel was very friendly with Lianderthral and not so much with Sariel. The wolf slept next to Lianderthral and probably kept him warm. They could have shared the wolf, of course, but neither had brought up the subject, and Sariel was not about to suggest it. Thus far, they had respected each other's distance, but she was beginning to wonder how much more of the cold she could stand. If only winter's chokehold over the land would ease up a little.

They rarely spoke to each other as they rode now. Their breath turned into white puffs when they breathed and the wind snatched the words from their mouths. Even when they were only a couple of lengths apart, they had to shout to make themselves heard. It was simply too much effort when they needed to conserve their energy for more important things.

Up ahead, Lianderthral stopped and held up a hand to warn her before turning his horse around. Sariel understood. For a while now, the wind had begun to gather in strength and the temperature was dropping rapidly. A storm was coming and they had to seek what little shelter they could find in the hills. It seemed as if nature had answered Sariel's silent pleas with an even greater show of strength.

Sariel turned Myste around as well and trudged after Lianderthral until she caught up. She looked at the black blur that was Kaeloriel against the snow, and decided that when they found shelter—_if_ they found shelter—she would not hesitate to rely on her companions' body heat. Enough was enough. Embarrassment would be a small price to pay compared to the pain of frostbite.

Though the horses were tired, they, too, felt the approaching storm. When their riders mounted, they responded swiftly, sensing the urgency of the situation. Unfortunately, shelter seemed impossible to find in the barren plains they had been crossing. Lianderthral and Sariel headed for more uneven ground, hoping that nature would provide them with shelter along with storm.

* * *

"We are close; someone made camp here, and not too long ago. It is rather large for only Sariel, but perhaps she rested here for a few days," Gandalf told them. "What say you, Vanidar?"

Somehow, Vanidar had become the second in command of the company, if only by default. Arwen had little wish to lead and would have been inexperienced even if she had. Boromir and Gimli only accompanied the group out of loyalty to the others, as they did not even know Sariel well. Legolas could have led, for the outcome of the trip mattered the most for him, but at the same time it was the reason why he would have made a poor leader.

Gandalf was the natural choice and the only surprise was that he asked so often for Vanidar's opinions. The Elf of Lórien had proven himself, making it clear that he truly cared for Sariel regardless of what had become of her after she had been taken into Belderon's grasp. His impartiality lent a degree of calm to the group.

"She was here," Vanidar confirmed. "However, we should not linger. There are wolves in the woods; we have all heard the howls of a strong pack."

"They will not attack such a large band," said Gandalf, "but how did Sariel fare?"

Vanidar examined the ground before them, but rain and snow had destroyed much of the evidence. "I fear that Sariel encountered the wolves, although it seems that she at least survived to leave this place."

Legolas prowled the area, eyes intent on the traces of the campsite. Away from the others, his breath caught when he saw a dark stain in crushed grass. He let out a cry that had the companions turning to him. "Blood as been spilled here! Look, not all of it has washed away."

Vanidar and Gandalf were at his side in a few swift strides, the Elf immediately laying a calming hand on Legolas's shoulder. "It may be from her old injuries," Vanidar said softly. "Or if they are from new wounds, she must have fought off the wolves. There is not enough of it to suggest serious harm."

Legolas shrugged off his hand angrily, though he rose from his crouch without another word. Gandalf led them back to their mounts, Vanidar and Arwen discussing things in tones low enough that the words were lost even to the others' sharp hearing.

"We will ride on to the plains and try for the hills beyond," Gandalf told them. "The storm is ahead of us, but by the time we reach the plains, it will most likely have passed. There is little shelter there. If Sariel has not reached the hills, she will have a hard time of it to-day."

Winter had hit their group a little lighter; they were better provisioned and equipped for the weather. Sariel had fled from Lórien without many resources, but they had anticipated the heavy snow and had packed accordingly. They also had Gandalf, whose very presence seemed to lift their hearts. They had encountered nothing surprising and had seen little of orcs or other such creatures. Now that signs of Sariel had been found, the knowledge that they were gaining on her and that she had not yet come to harm infused them with a new resolve despite the cold.

"We are near," Arwen repeated to Legolas as she rode beside him, seeing how the trace of blood had affected him. "If we ride on tonight and follow the wake of the storm, Sariel will be near, for she would have stopped for the storm."

"Would she have?" Legolas questioned, mouth set in a grim line. "Would she have stopped, or pressed on for her sister's sake?"

"She is not so foolish, Legolas." But Arwen's downcast eyes said otherwise.

Vanidar and Gandalf lagged behind them, out of earshot due to the buffeting winds. The Elf turned to Gandalf with sharp eyes, expression implacable. "More than one horse was in that camp," he said. "But I am sure that it is Sariel's."

Gandalf's eyes were thoughtful. "She may have found someone to help her, then."

"From where? And is it a Man or Elf?" Vanidar shook his head. "It seems impossible that she would meet someone by chance in this frozen land."

"There are solitary dwellers among every race," Gandalf told him. "And perhaps their meeting was not by chance. Sariel's cause is worthy, even if her means are confused."

"Then Legolas may have someone else to worry about," Vanidar replied shortly. His brief smile was knife's edge sharp. The Elf, like Haldir, held no comradely feelings toward Legolas. In his view, it had been Legolas who had forced Sariel to leave Lórien so abruptly, with winter coming and alone. Prisoner or otherwise, Sariel had not decided to leave until whatever exchange she had had with Legolas; that much was clear.

It was not that Vanidar disliked Legolas, but if Sariel found another to turn to, he would not have much sympathy for the one left behind.

* * *

After a couple of hours of bone-jarring riding and floundering in the deep snow, Sariel and Lianderthral found a small cave. It was no more than a tiny grotto in the side of a hill, hardly large enough to contain the two horses, the wolf, and themselves. Still, after enduring the first hour of the storm, Sariel thought that there had never been a more welcome sight. It was Kaeloriel who found it and she gave new thanks that the wolf was with them, for without him, it was likely that she and Lianderthral would have simply frozen to death.

Even their Elven bodies had limits, and Sariel knew that she was fast approaching hers. Lianderthral, not weakened by wounds, was in slightly better shape, but his stiff movements told Sariel that despite his silence, he wasn't much better off. Both of them had half-frozen clothes from when the snow had melted from their body heat and eventually become ice again. Although both Elves had a change of clothes in their saddlebags, Sariel cringed at the thought of changing—first because of the cold, and second because it would be in front of Lianderthral in a small space.

She could not honestly think of a time when she had been bare in front of another—perhaps before her abduction from Lórien, but never since Sariel had been with Belderon. Disrobing in front of Lianderthral when it meant that she would be drier and warmer should not have been an issue, but even the thought of such vulnerability made Sariel tense.

The wolf watched her as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, and Sariel felt heat flood her cheeks despite herself. It was a stupid thing to worry about, but the thought of being so close to someone unnerved her, even if that someone was Lianderthral, who knew so many of her secrets. She had rarely been self-aware of her body other than its use as a tool, but now she was very much aware. Sariel glared at Kaeloriel, who matched her gaze with an unwavering golden one of his own. His tongue lolled out in a wolfish grin and disgusted with herself, Sariel turned away.

The horses were led in first, their saddlebags removed as Lianderthral and Sariel worked silently to rub them down. The work actually made her warmer, although knowing that the horses took up so much of the cramped space did not ease Sariel's mind. Kaeloriel needed no urging to take shelter from the pending storm and after watching the Elves for a while, abandoned them to curl up a few feet away.

Together they had covered the mouth of the cave with Lianderthral's blue tarpaulin, which shielded them from the winter winds and driving snow. It made a big difference in keeping the warmth in, but the bright color made Sariel feel horribly conspicuous amid all the white snow. There were no other living beings to see, yet it made her uneasy knowing that they could be picked out so easily from the natural landscape.

They did not bother in attempting to start a fire, knowing that they had no fuel to keep it going. The temperature outside steadily dropped and when Sariel's hands brushed against Lianderthral's, neither could feel it. Sariel looked down at their hands in shock, slowly starting to realize that without a fire, with so little warmth, they could easily die. They would have, had they not found shelter before their strength gave out.

The one small comfort they had was light. A faint blue radiance glowed as if from a flame trapped within the white crystal in the pommel of Lianderthral's sword. When Sariel asked about it, the only reply Lianderthral would give was that it was not of his doing, and that the sword had been a gift of Galadriel, gloried descendant of the Noldor, those who were known to have possessed the Fëanorian lamps. Visibly reluctant to speak of it, Lianderthral did not offer more explanation when Sariel pressed.

With nothing else to distract them, an awkward silence fell over the small space. Sariel looked down at the floor, where there would barely been enough room for both of them to lie down. They were still in their wet clothes and Sariel finally turned to Lianderthral, wondering if she should take the initiative.

"We both have dry clothes," Lianderthral said before she could. He sounded tentative, different from his usual confident and casual manner, and Sariel was glad for the dim light. Even if they could both see each other perfectly clearly, they could pretend otherwise. "You should change while I, ah, turn around."

Clearly discomfited, he did as he said before she could reply. Sariel stared at his back, but she was not about to let the opportunity pass.

"I will tell you when I am finished," she said as she rummaged through the bags for her clothes. Knowing she was absurdly tense, she forced herself to at least appear unconcerned. "Lianderthral, if you want to change into your clothes right now, I won't turn around until you're ready. No sense in wasting time."

"Thank you," he answered. "I will let you know when I am finished, too."

Could there have been a more awkward exchange? Genuinely mortified, Sariel looked down, only to see Kaeloriel crack open an eyelid. She could have sworn that his one golden eye held purely amused laughter. She pointedly ignored the wolf as she shed her clothes, only then realizing that she had nothing to dry herself with.

"Lianderthral…I need to get the towel from my saddlebag," she choked out.

"I can get it for you," he said. She did not know what was worse—that they were changing together only a few feet apart, albeit without looking at each other, or that there was a whole new previously undiscovered level of self-consciousness in which to agonize over in the fact that they were talking about it.

"Sariel, I'll drape it over your shoulders, is that all right? I won't look."

It was too cold to say no, so Sariel said yes. A few minutes later, as soon as she finished, she buried her face in the now damp towel, trying to cool her burning cheeks. Her call of "done" was rather muffled. Inwardly, she reminded herself that there were very high stakes here. Elves had died from cold before.

When they were both decently dressed and their embarrassment had faded somewhat, they searched the saddlebags for some food. The _lembas_ gave them an energized feel but the Elvish journey-cakes hardly warmed them, which was what they truly needed. Still, that Lianderthral had them at all was a blessing. Sariel remembered the cloaks she had brought from Nenuial but had never worn.

It would have been pointless to layer them atop sopping wet clothes, but now that they were dry, more layers meant more warmth. Sariel asked Lianderthral to help her look through the saddlebags, although she wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep. Lianderthral told her to fight the feeling, lest she fall into a sleep she would not wake from.

She searched for a while, so tired that it took her longer than it should have to realize that she recognized none of the things in the bag she held. Lianderthral, however, seemed to have found something in his pack. To her horror, Sariel saw a very familiar rose in his hand. He must have accidentally taken her saddlebags, and she, his. In the blue light, the rose looked almost black.

It had been lying beside her pillow when she had woken that morning in Lórien, forgotten in the aftermath until that moment. Arwen must have been the one who had left it there, but Sariel had not had the opportunity to speak with her before she fled. Unable to leave it behind when she left Lothlórien yet unwilling to look at it, Sariel had hastily put it between the folds of a spare cloak and left it at the bottom of her saddlebag.

Now Lianderthral held it in his hand as if aware that it came with its own history, though it was something that she had never mentioned to him. While Sariel held her breath, stomach clenched into sudden knots, Lianderthral examined it. Unbidden, memories of Arwen's kindness and acceptance in giving the gift to her arose in Sariel's mind. Her heart ached when she wondered whether Arwen would forever hate her for her betrayal.

Finally, Lianderthral looked at her. "It is almost as if it is one of the undying flowers in the gardens of Yavanna," he said. "But never have I seen one of this color, a blood-red so dark it seems almost to shun even the light which illumines it."

"It is a rose from the garden of Galadriel," Sariel found herself saying, shaken by his tone. "A symbol. They call it _an-uir_, forever. The color…" Her hands itched to snatch the rose away and it was with difficulty that she forced them to be still and steadied her voice. "I pricked my finger upon a thorn and it stained a petal...the color is unnatural. When the Lady Arwen gifted it to me, it was as white as fresh snow."

"I have seen it before," he said, surprising her. "Long have I known the Lady of Light. My sword is in part for the remembrance of Lothlórien and the trees under which I once walked.

"Remembrance," she said with a small but bitter laugh. "I doubt our memories are much the same. Why have you never told me of yourself, Lianderthral?"

He was silent for a time, until she thought he would not answer her. "Do you want me to?"

Sariel hesitated, considering it seriously, but Lianderthral was already so close to her. It was only right that she be close to him. "Yes, I do."

He looked at her for a moment, and then dropped his gaze. To her relief, he carefully put the rose back in her saddlebags and pulled out two cloaks, one dark blue and the other of a black or grey hue, depending on the light. She took the one he offered and wrapped it around herself while Lianderthral did the same with the other.

"Do you think we can sleep now?" she asked him sleepily. "I am almost warm. What about you?"

"Only tired," he replied, dropping to sit on the floor. She followed suit.

Kaeloriel opened his eye again and flicked an ear at them, as if wondering what was taking so long. Sariel fought a brief surge of irritation as she realized the wolf was laughing at them again, probably because they were both eyeing the floor space between them.

"It may make you uncomfortable, Sariel," Lianderthral started bluntly, "but the heat from our bodies…"

Sariel quickly waved him to a stop, past the point of embarrassment. Sitting cross legged on the floor only reminded her of how easy it would be to just lie down and sleep. Her head felt so heavy she rested it on her hand, arm propped awkwardly on her leg, and then gave up when she could not even maintain that position. They had tried to conserve space, but after the horses, the remaining area was such that they could barely sleep side by side. Even without Lianderthral's reasoning, they would have had to do it anyway. The truth was, their closeness would help keep each other warm and both of them knew it.

"By the light of Eärendil," she whispered, closing her eyes. It was such a relief to do even that. Sariel lay down on her side with her back to Lianderthral, and tried not to think. After another moment, she felt Lianderthral lie down right next to her, his back to her back. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief…it wasn't so bad. The shelter was not really _that_ cramped for space and she was fast beginning not to care, as long as she could sleep.

In another moment, she froze as Kaeloriel growled a little, apparently finding his personal space encroached upon. Lianderthral shifted closer to Sariel, but it was not enough to appease the wolf. He growled again and Lianderthral shifted until his back was completely pressed to Sariel's. She spared a moment to be thankful that the wounds on her back had healed enough that they were no longer a problem. The growing warmth from the contact made her tense until she let herself enjoy it.

Having someone touch her was…it somehow filled her with more than physical warmth. The sure knowledge that Lianderthral was right there, his heartbeat practically against hers, his breathing light in her ears—it all meant more to her than she had thought it would. Slowly, all worries left her mind as, surrendering to the fatigue, Sariel fell asleep with the one last thought that someone was with her.

It was very late when Kaeloriel silently rose from Lianderthral's side and stretched, careful not to disturb his sleeping comrades. His amber-gold eyes gazed on the Elves without surprise. Sometime during the night, they had shifted so that Sariel's back was to Lianderthral's front, and he lay curled around her, arm draped across her waist. They were cuddled together more comfortably than wolf cubs.

As silently as he had risen, the wolf lay down again and closed his eyes in contentment. Sharp teeth flashed in the soft glow from the walls as the wolf grinned and thought of his mate, the grey wolf Aranskavi, so far away and leading the pack through the harsh winter in his absence. Giving the Elves another flickering glance laced with amusement and a little sadness, Kaeloriel slept.

* * *

They had finally reached the hills beyond the plains. As Gandalf had predicted, the storm had been an hour or two ahead of them and had moved on before they arrived. It was a little warmer, although not by much, and the group clasped numb hands in hope that they would find Sariel soon.

Legolas was filled with an odd feeling of nervous anticipation. He wanted to apologize for his words to Sariel but was still struggling to come to terms with her identity. He wanted to see her again and yet feared the moment in which he could look in her eyes. They had journeyed so far in order to find her, but what could they truly do when they did? Could they keep her with them against her will? Was she still technically a prisoner?

He was not the only one with such mixed feelings. Arwen gave him a few concerned glances that he did not see, blind as he was to everyone around him. She, too, was troubled, although she had better success at hiding it. When they had parted company with Sariel, it had been on no friendly terms, and while Arwen had forgiven Sariel, that forgiveness had yet to be tested. It was one thing to know that one should forgive, and to say that one did, but another thing to truly believe it. She was not sure that she did. None of them were sure.

Vanidar was the only one who completely concealed his feelings, but he also had less to hide. After all, Vanidar had spoken for Sariel in the Council, helping her when she most needed it. What bothered him was less her reception of him and more the fear that she was a stranger after all. Both had changed much since their childhood. The Sariel that he believed he knew, was she the one that he would find? Or had she become wholly Belderon's creature, one who bore little resemblance to his childhood friend?

Even Gandalf felt the weight of weeks of expectation as they closed in on Sariel. He had been burdened with the responsibility of her by no means inconsiderable powers. He did not want to take on a pupil, and yet it was necessary, despite his temperament. After all, Gandalf was quick at times to sharp speech, a trait not altogether conducive to teaching, and he had little patience for heroes and fools. And Sariel, judging by her recent actions, could be considered either or perhaps both. He had not even met the Elf before, but already he knew she brought trouble with her.

Somehow the great ones always did; those whose concerns concerned the world. Gandalf doubted that Sariel even knew just how much her actions could affect others. No, she was thinking only of herself, and who could blame her? She had no one else to think of her, and it was in those moments when she began to think of others that she was the most dangerous, most unpredictable.

In the wake of the storm, the skies had cleared and the sun appeared again, shining strongly down on the travelers. The ground was covered in newly fallen snow in some places and had hardened to slippery ice in others, making the terrain tricky for both horse and Elf. The newly fallen snow had also erased signs of Sariel's passage and while they could be reasonably sure that she was somewhere near, it was impossible to track her to an exact location in the plentiful rolling hills.

After some discussion, they decided to divide into groups in order to search for any possible signs indicating Sariel's whereabouts. It was by pure chance that Vanidar, scouting ahead with Arwen, saw an uncovered corner of blue tarpaulin, standing out starkly amidst the more natural shades of browns and whites.

"Gandalf—Legolas—come here quickly!" Arwen's voice carried over the snow just enough for the companions to hear. The chances were high that they had found Sariel, but she could not be sure that they had not stumbled upon someone else. She put a hand to Vanidar's arm, preventing him from being the first to pull aside the tarpaulin. Understanding her intentions, Vanidar drew back.

"What is it?" Legolas asked, but already he had spotted what had caught their attention. He knelt beside the covering and began to scoop away the snow, revealing more of the bright color. "Come, help me!"

They gathered around and started brushing away the snow. With so many eager hands helping, it was not long before they uncovered it. Gandalf was about the pull it aside by the edge, but motioned for Legolas instead. About to protest, the words died on Vanidar's lips when his eyes met Arwen's. Slowly, he nodded to the unspoken command in those cool grey depths. It was fitting that Legolas, the one who had been closest to Sariel and most hurt by her treachery, would be the first to see her again.

Drawing back a little, the others watched as he pulled the tarpaulin back with almost reverent fingers. Legolas knelt in the snow, body leaning forward until he was just past the entrance…and froze.

Sariel and another Elf were sleeping, pressed warmly together. Legolas's disbelieving eyes took in the black wolf that shared the space, but all of his attention was on the sleeping Elves, gently illuminated by a bluish light from the jewel that decorated the pommel of a sword.

He opened his mouth and drew a breath, but to do what, Legolas did not know. To cry out? To wake them? To give voice to the sudden rush of feelings that had his heart in his throat and cold steel twisting in his chest? The stranger's arm was wrapped around Sariel just beneath her breasts, holding her so she slept in the hollow of his body. There was an obvious tenderness in the arrangement.

Legolas rocked back on his heels, hand clenching so hard on the tarpaulin that he pulled it completely free from its fastenings, revealing the true size of the opening. He was breathless and powerless all at once, and then when black spots threatened to bloom and invade his vision, he heard as if from far away the ragged breaths that must have been his own.

How could it be?

The others called out questions but he was not listening. Hands pulled him back before they crowded the small entrance of the shelter, blocking his view of the sleeping figures. But he could still see it all perfectly, vividly, stamped upon his clear memory. No time would ever erase the detail or gently anesthetize the feeling that swept through him. He closed his eyes as Sariel's confused voice and the growl of a wolf filled the sudden silence.

"What—who are…_Arwen_?"

He might have still been able to maintain his reason if not for the thin thread of innocence he heard in her voice, in that confused questioning—between one heartbeat and the next, the pain transmuted into anger. She played the innocent so well, as she always had.

Pushing Vanidar aside, Legolas strode into the shelter, unheeding of the wolf's warning snarl. Sariel's eyes widened as they took him in but she shied away when he reached toward her, pressing against the other Elf and making him even angrier. Rage made his heart pound furiously as he reached past her, focusing his attack on the stranger.

A hand on his arm tried to stop him and he turned back to see Arwen. He shook off her grip in a swift, hard movement that almost sent her to the floor.

"Legolas—" Shaken, Arwen stopped speaking when she saw his expression. She had never seen him lose his composure so completely.

"How dare he," Legolas hissed with blind, unreasoning fury, and saw for the first time that the stranger was awake. He leaned down to grab the Elf, but then Sariel was rising swiftly, coming between them. She pushed him, hard, and he staggered back.

"Legolas, _no_!"

It was as if she had slapped him. He stopped, hands clenched at his sides.

"Sariel…_you_…" Anger and anguish fought for control of his voice, the soft huskiness betraying him in the end, the edge not of disbelief but of newfound pain.

The other Elf stood and Legolas tore his gaze away from Sariel, seeing for the first time now the stranger looked like him, almost exactly like him. Who was he, to step between them as if instinctively protective of Sariel? Who was he to hold her so close with the familiarity of lovers? Who was he, who could have been his twin, standing before him now with his hand on Sariel's arm, as if he had the _right _to touch her!

Legolas took a step forward and then turned his head sharply at the sudden movement he saw out of the corner of his eye, a black blur leaping toward him.

"_Daro, Kaeloriel!"_ The shout rang in the small space, but it was too late.

Legolas fell hard as the weight slammed into him, his world suddenly filled with black fur and blazing golden eyes. The wolf stood on his chest, claws digging into his flesh through the cloth, and his gleaming teeth were poised to rip out his throat. Legolas closed his eyes, oddly without fear, and made no move to fight off his would-be killer.

Instead, the wolf came off him, still snarling. Legolas opened his eyes to see that the others had drawn their weapons in shock, not knowing what to make of it all. The black wolf merely turned to the stranger, the expression in his eyes almost reproachful.

Sariel's face was flushed from either anger or embarrassment. No emotion whatsoever showed on the stranger's face, but his eyes had the coolness and the brilliance of hard green emeralds as he rearranged his cloak and looked at the intruders. He had not yet let go of Sariel, but she drew away now.

"Sariel, who is this?" Arwen asked, but it was Gandalf who answered.

"Lianderthral, I did not expect to find you here," he said, looking at the Elf steadily. "This explains much. You have been teaching her?"

"We did not…it is not what you presume," Sariel said to Arwen as her friend took her hands in her own. Her words were accentuated with Kaeloriel's low growl. Sariel's eyes flickered to Legolas and dropped before she looked at Arwen again, voice almost pleading. "The night was cold—"

"Not as cold as your faithless heart," Legolas interrupted, voice laced with a chilling disdain. He had regained control of himself and was relentless. Sariel paled at his words, Arwen's tightened grip on her hands almost unfelt. Somehow the lack of emotion was more unnerving than anything else and she felt her eyes start to prickle with hot tears.

Without another word, Legolas turned toward the opening and left, the others moving out of his way in stunned silence.

Myste and Lianderthral's horse had risen and now formed a solid wall of horseflesh around them. Kaeloriel had frightened them and they took little nervous steps now, eyes rolling with trepidation. The wolf backed to Lianderthral's side but his posture was still tense, as if he might spring at any notice.

For another moment, the two groups stared at each other, Gandalf's company with shock, and Sariel and Lianderthral, amid the horses and wolf, with hostility. Only Arwen stood on the other side of the divide.

"I have been teaching her," Lianderthral finally said. "But why are you here? Why have you followed us, Mithrandir?"

"You have been told, then, how dangerous your abilities make you?" Gandalf asked Sariel. She nodded numbly.

"You tell us things we already know," Lianderthral said, unafraid to face the wizard. "I ask again, why have you followed us?"

"Belderon poses a threat to all Elves," Arwen said quietly from beside Sariel. "We have come to help Sariel in her attempt to rescue Lessena. Vanidar is one of her childhood friends and hails from Lórien. The Dwarf is Gimli, son of Glóin, and the man is Boromir. The other Elf," she hesitated, "was Legolas Thranduilion, heir to the Woodland Realm." Her voice trailed away. "I apologize for all of this."

"The blame is not yours to accept," Lianderthral replied coolly.

"We mean to join you, Sariel. For my part…after your actions, I was not ready to trust again when you needed it of me. Nor could I accept your past. I disregarded your need to aid your sister, when I should have understood." Arwen smiled tremulously, but to Sariel's eyes there was a soft radiance in her face. "I should have known who was the real you, the sister of my heart who, through her delight in life, reminded me of what it meant to be alive when it seemed like my entire heart was taken from me."

"Arwen," Sariel said, emotion thickening her voice. "Arwen, I understand." Exactly what she understood, she did not say. She embraced Arwen, hugging her tightly and uncaring of the others around them. When she finally let go, she saw Gandalf watching them with a faint smile on his weathered face.

"Sariel, we have traveled so far to help you," Vanidar began, and Sariel stopped him with a small shake of her head.

"For now, let us ride together, if you mean to help me. Belderon's fortress is very close and my sister waits. If it is your will to save her, then know that it is also my will to stop him. I can ask little of you but that you do not hinder me." She made the words a challenge, which Gandalf accepted.

"So be it. We shall ride, but allow us a brief rest now. We have journeyed hard to find you and we must plan before we meet Belderon."

* * *

The group rode mostly in silence, which was just as well, for when Legolas joined them again, he had not bothered with greetings. His expression remained stoic even at the sight of Lianderthral and Sariel riding side by side. He chose to linger behind, bringing up the last of the group. Twice Sariel tentatively dropped behind the others, reluctant to talk but convinced that they should, but Legolas clearly was not ready for the inevitable conversation. His position unfortunately made her doubly aware of everything she did, leaving her feeling like he was watching her.

Part of Sariel was relieved at his avoidance and the other part worried. No, more than worried, but she had no name for all the thoughts that had crossed her mind, making it impossible for her to relax. She reminded herself that she had more important things to worry about than hurt feelings, whether they were her own or another's. At the same time, as silent and distant as Legolas's presence was, she felt it keenly. Even out of sight, she had only to look to her sides to remember that she was no longer alone with Lianderthral, and to remember who had come in search of her.

The sounds of wind and muffled hoofbeats could have come from a herd of wild horses, but they had a specific purpose. They had only just entered a swath of forestland, very welcome after the plains and hills, when Gandalf called a brief halt.

"Is something wrong?" Sariel questioned Lianderthral, looking around her but seeing nothing unusual. But with the cessation of even the horses' movement, she began to hear it.

"Warn the others to be silent," Legolas whispered to her, and Sariel gestured for them to be quiet even as Gandalf did.

There it was, the faint trembling of the ground, a subtle vibration. When she dismounted and crouched, lowering her head to the ground, she knew what it was: the sound of many horses, so many that the pounding of hoofbeats had blended together into a kind of rumble. The forest was utterly silent around them, the usual sounds of animals and birds absent.

The others had dismounted also and now drew near Gandalf, looking to him for instruction. Instead, Sariel stepped forward, demanding their attention.

"Something is coming. I will go." Before the others could utter more than a few words of protest, Sariel slipped away, running on light feet until she disappeared into the brush. Lianderthral started to follow but Arwen halted him, shaking her head sharply. As loath as they were all to admit it, Sariel had been expressly trained for such stealth and knew the land around them better than they did.

Instead, they waited, fearing for her safety. Vanidar scaled a tree but returned moments later, having little success in his intelligence gathering. Gimli grumbled until a sharp look from Legolas silenced him. They had nothing to do but wait.

Slipping between the trees like a shadow, Sariel made her way in the direction of the noise. Soon, she could see light as well, flickering firelight that penetrated through the natural gloom of the forest, now that night was fast approaching. The dusky light was perfect for her purposes and she had little trouble finding a tree both close enough to be useful and far enough to be safe. The canopy was thankfully thick enough for her to make her way to the edges of the camp that was being set up.

The branch she finally straddled was thick enough to easily support her weight and barely shifted as she edged farther out from the trunk of the tree. She finally lay on her stomach, knees firmly gripping the tree, and reached out with her hands to slightly move the thinner, flexible branches below. After a few adjustments, she found a space to look through—and nearly fell.

_Aragorn!_ Barely suppressing her gasp in time, Sariel slipped on the branch but managed to rescue herself before she completely slid off. The branch began to dip a little, but it only gave her a clearer view of the things below.

It _was_ Aragorn. A second look and a third all told her the same thing: the impossible had happened. She had held him while he died, had seen the light die from his eyes. His body should have been at Lórien, awaiting true interment in Gondor, but now he appeared before her, looking completely alive.

How could it be possible? Her eyes took in his features, but everything she saw only confirmed her initial recognition. This was not someone who looked like Aragorn, but Aragorn himself—and now, she recognized even the fine garments that he had worn in death, Elven-made and of an unsurpassable quality. Andúril was by his side and no sword was like it.

Neither was Aragorn the only shock. She saw armored orcs in every direction, as far as she could see from above. She guessed that many more were hidden in the trees of the forest.

At the sight of Aragorn conversing with the orcs, commanding them, the first thought she had was that Aragorn was a prisoner. Regardless of what she knew to be true—that Aragorn had _died_—she was already scrambling for a logical reason for what she saw. But the Man walked free and even a few moments of observation told Sariel that he was leader rather than servant among the orcs.

One came up to Aragorn and knelt before him, speaking a harsh, guttural language. Sariel thought it was the language of the Uruk-hai, the orc and goblin offspring the wizard Saruman had bred, the hybrids that Belderon had so admired and used as a prototype for his own experiments. She could just make out a few words that Aragorn spoke in return.

They had orders to find her and return her to Belderon. The chill that crept up her spine at the knowledge was only reinforced by the new knowledge that Aragorn was the leader of the orcs. Sick at heart, Sariel knew that she would not learn much else here. Gandalf and Lianderthral would know what to make of this news. Perhaps Gandalf would know how it was possible that Aragorn stood here, alive and under Belderon's power, seemingly of his own free will.

She refused to believe that the Man who would have returned to Gondor, had his trip to Lórien been completed, as husband to an Elven queen and king of a nation, had chosen to help Belderon. After all, Sariel knew exactly what it was like to be compelled.

The orcs had surrounded Aragorn, hiding him from sight. As she watched, firelight caught the silver of an upraised sword. Andúril shone briefly with all the purity of its past glory and then flashed down. For a moment, the orcs parted before Aragorn as he strode through them, the blade in his hand dripping now with viscous black liquid. As he disappeared from sight, the orcs converged as a mass on their slain brethren, drawing knives as they prepared to appease their hunger. One directly cut off a piece of flesh and lifted it to his lips as Sariel watched in horrified revulsion.

Aragorn had evidently fulfilled a request. What hold did Belderon have over him? Excited by the death, arguments and fights began to break out among the rabble of orcs. Sickened, Sariel turned away. She could no longer bear to watch.

* * *

"I saw Aragorn," she told them fumbling, forcing the name past numb lips. "He is the leader of the orcs and there are great numbers of them, several hundred at the least." Sariel stared sightlessly into the fire, hands clenched tightly together in front of her. With difficulty, she forced herself to remain calm. "They obey his orders. They have been warned to look for me."

"Aragorn?" Arwen was the first to respond, and she did so with disbelief bordering on anger. "What cruel joke do you play, Sariel? He is dead."

"Arwen, I saw him with my own eyes, as living as you are. I do not understand how or why, but I swear it. Would I lie to you about this, when I listened to him whisper his last words and promised to carry them to your ears?" Sariel looked at Arwen, unprepared for the rage that she found.

"I cannot believe that you would dishonor his memory so by concocting such a tale," Arwen hissed at her, standing up. There was a world of disdain in her voice, but beneath it all was fear, Sariel knew.

"Enough," Lianderthral intervened. "Tell us all you know, Sariel."

"Aragorn…" she faltered, glancing at Arwen, but continued at Gandalf's prompting. "He must be controlled in some way by Belderon, because he has done things that he would never do otherwise. I wish it were as if everything that made him who he is has been taken away, but it is not. Aragorn is still as he was before; his appearance, his clothes, even his sword is exactly as I remember!"

"His behavior?" Gandalf prompted.

Sariel shook her head. "I do not know. He seems as capable of a leader as I know him to be, yet how would the Aragorn that we knew ever consent to lead a host of orcs?"

"Are you sure that it is he and not another?"

"I am telling the truth," Sariel said desperately, looking first at Lianderthral and then Gandalf, and then the others. "I swear it. I stayed for long enough to be positive it is he. None other can wield Andúril as he does. There are a thousand details I can recount, down to even the embroidery on his burial garments, which he now wears!"

"Perhaps you saw him, but Belderon may be able to make you see only what he wishes for you to see. His hold over you is still strong," Gandalf said, although he did not seem to doubt her word.

"You lie," Arwen said, and her grey eyes blazed with pain and fear as they met Sariel's. "He is gone."

"Could another have the skill to sew the delicate petals of _simbelmyn__ë _in silver thread as you did, Arwen? You must believe me!"

"Believe the word of an assassin?" Arwen spat, her voice rising, almost shrill. "You are still _his_ creature. You say that Aragorn serves Belderon. He would take his own life first, rather than consent! Tell me, what does Belderon use to compel him?"

Arwen saw in Sariel's face that she had no answer. "Whereas you, Sariel, _you_! You still wear his necklace around your neck like a noose. Can you claim otherwise?"

Her hand darted out and closed on the silver chain, painfully jerking it until Sariel stood as well, crying out as it cut into her neck. The hourglass vial, red with ever fresh blood, fell out and dangled at her throat. Sariel shuddered as the vial touched her bare skin, unable to stop a gasp from escaping her throat.

The others looked at her with new eyes, suspicion blooming on their faces. Only Gandalf was untouched by the potent sign of her servitude to Belderon, only Lianderthral moved forward to stand by her side, helping steady her with a hand under her elbow.

"What Arwen says is true. I cannot remove the vial," she said into the silence. Lianderthral had already known or had guessed as much, and seemed ready to speak in her defense. She stopped him with a shake of her head and smiled sadly at him. His hands squeezed hers briefly before letting them go.

"But I am not under his power," Sariel continued. "He has not been able to contact me since my mother's death following my failure. I have heard nothing from him and I do not believe he would allow me this blessed silence had he power over me."

Lianderthral looked at each of them in turn with hard eyes and finally turned to Gandalf. "When I discovered the connection between them, I was able to block it. Sariel's affinity is for fire; my own affinity is water. It is natural for my abilities to neutralize hers, especially as I have much greater control and experience in wielding the power. As soon as I was able to, I tried to sever the ties between them."

"Lianderthral," Sariel gasped in sudden revelation. His unusual fatigue during the journey, which she had attributed to lack of endurance from frequent travel. "How—?"

He continued, ignoring her interruption although he gave her a quick glance and a wry smile of reassurance. "I found that it was impossible to do so. Sariel cannot remove the vial because Belderon bound her to it with the blood-oath she swore for the death of the son of Thranduil. If she removes it, she will die. However, I have been able to keep her free of Belderon's influence."

"That proves nothing," Arwen insisted, although her voice had begun to lack conviction. She sat suddenly, as if her legs were unable to support her, and Gimli rushed to help her. Her breath hitched and then she buried her face in her arms, shoulders hunched in pain.

"There's a simple solution to this problem," Gimli said gruffly, voice covering the soft sound of Arwen's suppressed sobs. "No need for tears yet, my lady. If you doubt Sariel's account, then we can send others to see for themselves."

Lianderthral immediately turned a questioning look on Vanidar, who nodded agreement. Sariel did not know if Lianderthral had purposely or not excluded Legolas. Either way, it was clear from the anger on his face that Legolas was bothered by it. Aragorn was one of his dearest friends and he had known him almost as long as he had known Arwen. They had gone through much together.

"Lianderthral should not go," Legolas said bluntly. "He is not acquainted with Aragorn, so how will he know if this leader is or is not the one we seek? I will go in his stead."

"On that count you are wrong, Legolas. I knew Aragorn very well in those days when he was but Strider, one of the Dúnedain." Lianderthral surprised everyone with this and even Sariel looked at him in astonishment. "You forget that as all but an outcast among our people, I have wandered this land nearly from end to end. Come Vanidar, let us go. Time is precious already."

Though Legolas was clearly still dissatisfied, he was not rash enough to make an issue of something so important. The two Elves left quickly, disappearing into the dark woods. The moon was only half full. Unwilling to idle away more hours in waiting, Gimli and Boromir left to hunt when Gandalf told them to begin arranging at least a temporary camp. They would press on for Lessena's sake, but they could not rush headlong toward Belderon's stronghold without plans.

Arwen sat on a log with her back to the rest of them. Her shoulders shook faintly and Sariel longed to go over and offer comfort, but knew that it would not be wise to provoke her emotions. Instead, Legolas went over and murmured soothingly to her, speaking in a low voice that made his words too soft for Sariel to decipher.

It hurt Sariel just as much as Arwen's words to her to see the comfortable way Legolas and Arwen sat together, how Legolas gently put his arms around her and Arwen leaned her head against his shoulder. It reminded her that they had known each other for centuries, whereas she had known them all only briefly, even Lianderthral, who seemed so close to her heart. But seeing Legolas and Arwen together and the proof of their close and enduring ties with each other made Sariel envious in ways she could not control.

She could not help but be a little angry with Arwen for not believing her, although she knew that Arwen's vehement denials stemmed from her refusal to hope that Aragorn was alive only to find out otherwise. With those thoughts in mind, she glanced over to Arwen and Legolas often but only saw Arwen resting her head against Legolas's shoulder. It seemed like too private of a moment for others to witness, and Sariel turned away hastily, but every detail was in her memory even so.

What would it be like to have the memory that Men possessed, so soft in face of time? Men, who could love and lose and yet love again, where Elves could not? Sariel closed her eyes, feeling tears threaten to slip out anyway. Even now, in such dire moments, she longed so much for that kind of closeness, the friendship and love that seemed to be natural to others but which had always been denied to her. But through the memories of Legolas's lips on hers, his clear voice lifted in song, his arms tight around her—all the things lost to her now—Sariel also remembered Lianderthral's bright smile and carefree laugh, his lessons that had sharpened the world around her into a brilliant vitality.

If nothing else, she had these memories, and even the most painful ones were more than she ever had through a thousand years of nothingness with Belderon, days and years and centuries passing without change, without life.

Sariel's anger faded and the last of her jealousy was washed away with the realization that what she now fought for was the chance that Lessena could experience some of the same things she had. Even a moment of freedom, even the temporary illusion of it, had changed her world.

Finding that little measure of peace within herself gave her the courage to rise and approach Legolas and Arwen. Gandalf watched as she went, his eyes dark with thought.

"Arwen," Sariel said as she knelt before the Evenstar whose light seemed dimmed by tragedy. Arwen still rested against Legolas and her raven black hair contrasted sharply with his silver-gold where the locks lay together; their eyes had been closed but now they looked at her. "I am truly sorry to be the bearer of such ill news," Sariel whispered. "I know it has not been easy for you and that I do not deserve any of the forgiveness that you have given me."

She blinked away tears, looking up at them, two such impossibly fair beings, who seemed to have never been touched by evil. It hurt too much to see them, so she dropped her gaze to the ground, her head bowed. Her voice was little more than a rasp. "But I still must make my plea, because I must _hope_, else there is nothing left. I know it is too much to ask but…please… Please understand."

* * *

**A/N:** News on the progress of final drafts for chapters is on my author bio. **Please review**, it would be great if I got new opinions on this, since my revisions were so extensive! Thanks – E.D.

_Finalized August 2008_


	11. Ties of Blood

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

Disclaimer: See chapters 1-10; it's not going to be changing. I'm done disclaiming! If you weren't convinced the first ten times, I don't think repetition is going to help.

* * *

**Chapter 11: Ties of Blood**

* * *

The sun was fiery and bright the next day, forcing the travelers to protect their eyes from the harsh glare of the snow as they led their horses through the rocky passages. Up ahead, the shadow of Belderon's hollow mountain looked like a dark blight upon the land. It was unusually quiet as they passed through the land and Sariel grew uneasy at the increasingly noticeable difference, though it had always been like that near the place. It was the eerie quiet of a land abandoned by all wildlife. Even though the snow had coated everything in a shining blanket of white that should have helped disguise the ugly nature of their destination, it only served to emphasize the austerity of their surroundings.

No one spoke much. To an outsider it might have seemed as if their silence came from a strong understanding between one another, but in fact it was the exact opposite. Only their individual skills compensated for the tensions running through the group and allow for the possibility of such a misperception. Sariel was not comfortable in any way and spared a moment to wistfully remember the casual camaraderie she had had with Lianderthral when they had traveled alone.

Her options for conversation were limited, in any case. Only Gandalf, Lianderthral, Arwen, and Vanidar responded with any attention when she addressed them; the others treated her as if she were inconsequential. There was nothing between Legolas and herself but frosty anger and it seemed likely to remain that way. Boromir and Gimli had looked at her with obvious mistrust once they had learned the truth about the vial that hung around her neck. She could not blame them for their anger, but it increased her stress. She was not used to being judged.

Left to ride between Arwen and Lianderthral, Sariel kept her eyes on Kaeloriel, who easily kept pace with them and loped just slightly ahead. A little before sunset, she urged Myste ahead, passing the rest while she mentally readied herself as if for combat. However, it was her companions' attention that she demanded when she turned around, holding up her hand to call for a halt. The others reluctantly drew up close to her, their horses still balking at the presence of the wolf even as they sensed that the spirit housed in the body was not like that of their usual foe.

"The mountain you see ahead of us serves as Belderon's fortress. There are countless rooms and halls carved out of the mountain's heart, and tunnels run deep beneath as well. He knows that we are here; we will not be able to surprise him," she began objectively. "I think that some of you begin to wonder why you have traveled so far to this place, to face Belderon." Her words fell into the silence like drops of water absorbed into a lake; no one denied her claim and yet no one offered their own thoughts on the matter. Their reluctance only strengthened her own resolve.

"I hope that you can remember, despite whatever enmity you feel towards me, that it is my sister that I mean to save, no matter the cost. Lessena…" Sariel's throat tightened when she thought of her sister. She looked briefly around to gauge the others' reaction to her words, only to see carefully contained emotions and blank expressions.

"Lessena was only twenty years of age when Belderon came and destroyed our lives. She has been locked away for all the centuries Belderon has kept us, knowing no other world than that of a grey room. There is no window to the outside, no chance that sunlight may enter. It is a prison not only for her body, but also for her mind. She is _innocent_." Sariel met each of their gazes, telling them what she had not said: however they felt about her, they could not let it affect their desire to help her sister. Whatever guilt she bore for being an assassin did not apply to her sister, who had been a victim her entire life.

"Has she been physically hurt?" Gandalf questioned directly, yet tactfully.

Sariel shook her head in denial. "She is not very strong, and I fear she is weaker now than even before. I do not know what Belderon has done to her as retribution for my failure and I do not know how we can save her, even should she gain release. Belderon will have traps waiting for us, and I suspect he would like nothing better than to kill his intended target—my intended target—himself. He uses me as his weapon, but he prefers to do things himself if he can." She realized what she had said and stopped for a moment, struggling against the acknowledgement of the possibility that she was still Belderon's creature, even now.

"He _used_ me," she corrected herself, an edge to her voice. "But no longer."

"You tell us things about Belderon that we already know," Vanidar said, but softened his censure. "Do you have plans we can consider?"

She took a breath, gaze lowered. "If I go alone, I can slip in and out faster and I have a better chance of saving my sister without anyone becoming hurt. Belderon knows that _I _am here and waits for me, but there is no need for others to become involved."

Sariel had barely finished speaking before objections came from Lianderthral and Vanidar. Arwen's silence was all the more noticeable and Sariel bit her lip, knowing what it meant. The truth was, it was too late and they all knew it. Because of her, most of them were already involved and had personal reasons for hating Belderon. Arwen was the perfect example of that. She was only afraid that the more they engaged with her former master, the more they would experience loss.

"I mean to help you, Sariel. I did not come with you this far to wait as you face him alone." Lianderthral's expression was so earnest and determined that Sariel found it hard to look away as she wanted to. "You cannot do this alone—if you could have, would you have waited until now to help your sister?"

"I have little left to lose," she replied steadily. "You would only be endangering yourself by helping me. And as I have already proved, such kindness is wasted on me."

"Do not allow your pride to make this unnecessarily difficult, Sariel," Vanidar interjected before Lianderthral could reply. Her one-time childhood friend kept his tone light although the words stung her, as he had known they would.

"It is not pride, but the knowledge of what cruelties Belderon is capable of, and knowledge of my own abilities. I was trained for this, Vanidar." Some bitterness crept into her voice. "Belderon trained me himself. He knew he could always control me through my mother and sister, so he made sure that all my skills matched or surpassed his, to make me all the more efficient."

"There is one skill that you are unprepared to face, however," Gandalf said matter-of-factly. "Your objective may be solely to rescue your sister, and I will help you with that. However, I came to find you for two purposes. First, I had to begin teaching you to control your gifts before they did others harm. Second, I came to defeat Belderon."

She could not argue with Gandalf, but she also wanted to make her priorities clear. "I go tonight only to help Lessena. Once she is out of danger, then we will deal with Belderon."

"Agreed," he responded without hesitation. "I will defer to your plans, Sariel, for now. As you said, you know Belderon best and have the most at stake here."

"Kaeloriel and I will also come," Lianderthral said. "The wolf accompanied us for his own reasons, you must remember. As Gandalf made clear, we will follow your lead."

"No, I cannot have so many with me, Lianderthral. The risk increases with each person." Sariel looked toward the horizon where the sun was sinking and knew they were wasting precious time while they talked. "I cannot see how Kaeloriel can help in Lessena's rescue."

Kaeloriel gave a short growl at that and although Sariel could not understand his exact response, it was answer enough. She stared into the wolf's golden eyes. He had been a mystery from the day he had joined them and was still a mystery now. Why had he come here, leaving his pack without their leader? Why did he tolerate them at all?

"Sariel, think about this logically," Lianderthral argued. "It is true that if it were some other mission, you would work best alone. The chances that you would be able to enter and depart without raising alarm would be higher if you were unaccompanied. However, you said yourself that you do not know what has happened to Lessena since you last saw her. If she is injured, can you escort her out by yourself? And even if it came to a fight, you would not be able to protect her and defend yourself without help. If there are any mishaps, we will at least be there."

Sariel stared into his green eyes, unwilling to admit that he had a point. Remembering Vanidar's earlier remarks about her pride, she nodded shortly to Lianderthral. "All right, but no others." She looked at Vanidar apologetically. "You must see that it would only hinder me and Lessena would not want you to be injured for her sake."

He nodded reluctantly. "We will stay here and wait for your safe return, but when we confront Belderon later, we will do it together."

Sariel risked a look to the side, where Legolas had been standing silently the entire time. "Guard the prince," she warned, speaking mostly to Vanidar and Gimli. It was strange to use the title rather than the name, but that was how things had become. "Belderon is after him and may even let us take Lessena if it meant he could kill Thranduil's heir. All of you will be in as much danger here as we will be inside."

"Look after yourself, Sariel, and we will do the same." Vanidar glanced at Arwen, his thoughts clear to Sariel—Belderon would find her a very attractive hostage as well, if he knew that she was here.

"What do you intend for us to do?" asked Lianderthral. "Belderon already knows you are here and has countless orcs at his disposal. He hides behind his formidable mountain and must only wait until we walk into his trap."

"Belderon does not know when we will strike, or where, or how. He cannot pinpoint where we are. If we time our entrance carefully, I believe we may be able to do this without his knowledge, or at least not until it is too late for him to retaliate."

"When do you suggest we act?" Gandalf's brow was furrowed, as if he already anticipated Sariel's answer.

"Tonight will be our best chance," she replied softly.

"Tonight?" Lianderthral exclaimed. "We cannot be so hasty. You are still tired from travel, Sariel."

She stood up and turned away from them so she would not have to see their expectant expressions. "I fear it will be too late if we wait. Belderon does not need me any longer, you see? He has Aragorn and the orcs. I have already failed to complete my task and he cannot be sure I would not disobey him again, even at the cost of Lessena's well-being. So, it is possible he means only to make me suffer…"

There was little they could say to that. Lianderthral put his hand on her arm, silently conveying his support, though she did not look at him. Out of the corner of her eye, Sariel could see that even Kaeloriel had bristled his dark fur, as if saying, _he may try_. But whatever suffering Belderon intended for her, Sariel knew that she would not simply take it.

The sun was setting, painting the sky with the ominous hues of fire and darkness, and the quiet was so profound it drowned everything living. In just a few hours, she would deliberately go against someone who had controlled her life for centuries. She had risked disobedience once, and it had ended her mother's life. Did she dare to risk it again?

Sariel wished that she could have known what Lessena wanted, but the sisters had never been close. They were too different; Sariel would have preferred to risk death rather than spend years in the strange twilight of not-death and not-life. Lessena did not have that kind of will or had had no chance to develop it. Belderon's prison was more for the soul than the body, and Sariel could not submit. Her sister, however, had done nothing _but _submit.

She felt a burden that seemed more absolute than the bare land stripped of greenery around them, a worry greater than any she had ever felt before. But to her surprise, she realized that it was not something that she had to bear alone. The bloody reds and oranges of the sky and the glow of the dying sun bathed all of them in a similar light. Lianderthral still stood by her, and Gandalf's tall, somber figure gave the comfort of wisdom and experience, a strength tested in trials far more critical than this. When she faced them again, fear was still evident in her eyes, but she held her head high.

"Tell me what you want us to do," Lianderthral said to her, and she nodded.

* * *

Tempers were short by the time they were finally ready, far later than Sariel had wanted. Nightfall had blanketed the sky with black but the moonlight turned the snow to a gleaming silver-blue, making the trees cast spidery grey shadows. All color had been washed away so that the world existed only in shades of black and white. Those who would remain behind had made a temporary shelter in the forest, although no fire had been started for fear of attracting undue attention.

What little food and water Sariel had consumed sat in a hard lump at the bottom of her stomach and her hands were cold with anticipation. Boromir and Gimli had put aside their doubts about her to genuinely wish her well, but she found it hard to respond to them. She was too wound up to even appreciate their support. Her goodbye to the Arwen had left both of them feeling awkward, the sound of nervous and forced laughter hanging in the air after she promised to be back in time for breakfast. Yet what else could she say?

Then there was Legolas. Her neck seemed to burn with the intensity of his gaze on her as she awkwardly accepted Arwen's embrace. When she stepped back, she was at a loss for what to do.

"Go to him," Arwen told her, as Sariel stood stiffly, trying to ignore how the others found reasons to be looking towards them, clearly waiting to see what would happen. Sensing the reason for Sariel's reluctance, Arwen chastised them all with a quick but steely look, as Sariel's feet moved her automatically toward Myste.

Almost about to mount, her hand hesitated as she checked over the fastening of her saddlebags, remembering what still lay hidden in the folds of her spare cloak. As her hands fumbled for the rose, unusually clumsy, she heard the sounds of Legolas' light footsteps. Her eyes finally fell on the flower, nestled in the cloth and still blooming in its arrested state, the darkness turning its petals nearly black. She turned around and held it in front of her as if it could ward him away.

"Take it," she said, suddenly sure. It was exactly what she needed to do, at least for this one night—she could no longer afford to have what the rose represented, all those ideals of love, faith, loyalty, and peace. Without these, Sariel was once again herself, and the assassin was free to do what was needed. It was freedom of a sort that she feared, for she no longer knew what she was willing to do, but there was a relief in admitting what they all knew: that there was a part of her, the darkest part, that was more comfortable with destruction than with hope. She did not want to pretend otherwise. If nothing else, Belderon had always been fond of brutal honesty, but Sariel had locked herself away in a cage of her own making, and now had set herself free.

She looked at Legolas without guilt. She offered him the rose knowing exactly what she had done to him, but accepting it as something she would do again, if forced to. Whatever he thought of her, she had done the best that she could. Whatever he thought of her, she had done the best that she could. Whether she had meant to stab him or not that night, or what could have happened if he had not woken up at that particular moment as she stood in front of him…all that was irrelevant, in a way, in _this_ particular moment.

"I do not want this, Sariel," he said angrily, pushing her hand away. Even when she reached out and grabbed his hand, he refused to hold it, so she brutally forced her hand over his so that his fingers curled around the stem. He made a sound of protest and then she looked down to see the blood welling up in little beads that dotted his palm.

"Take it," she insisted again. "Hold it for me until I come to take it back." Sariel stepped back, but this time it was Legolas whose free hand shot out and clasped her hand almost desperately.

"How can you be so sure you will come back?"

She stayed silent, the two of them motionless for many heartbeats. She searched his expression, but it was unreadable; his face was pale in the moonlight and his eyes were bright like gems and seemingly just as cold. In contrast, his hand was shockingly warm and all too real. She craved the connection between them, even this sudden and nearly palpable tension, but forced herself to finally draw away.

"I have to, don't I?" she said, looking straight into his eyes and watching as a wary understanding filled his face before it was once again stoic.

After all, justice could only be deferred, never completely eluded. In the clarity of the moment, they both understood that she would still have to pay, sooner or later. Time would catch up to her, precisely because she had all of time to face—death was not an option available for her, as it was for humans. It was too easy of a way out for what she had done. She could be the assassin now, but at the same time, she was changing, and while the wrongs that naïve children do may sometimes be forgiven or punished lightly, children grew up eventually and were no longer naïve.

"It is still mine," she told him, looking at the rose he now held carefully. She had given it to him, but it was still her blood-stained rose. It could have been Arwen holding the rose, or Vanidar, or any of the others—but it had to be Legolas, because he was the one who had been hurt most, and the one who had hurt her most as a result of her own actions. Whatever else he meant to her, he was the keeper of justice for her.

"Then I accept." There was an edge to his voice and the taste of bitterness to his words, but she was glad that it was there. It meant that they both understood.

Sariel turned away and walked calmly up to where Lianderthral and Gandalf were waiting, each having finished their own farewells. Looking back once to where Legolas still stood a little ways off, watching her, she knew that what lay ahead was merely what needed to be done. It settled her nerves and the last of her earlier anxieties faded when she thought about the exchange.

As one, the three of them walked into the woods, disappearing swiftly as Gandalf's white, Lianderthral's grey, and Sariel's silver-dusted black was lost amongst the trees. The only trace of their presence was their footprints on the snow, but even these were faint, quickly lost in the swirl of newly fallen snowflakes.

It had begun to snow again, a snow that fell silently and gently, as if doing its best to create a more beautiful white world.

* * *

Although Sariel was familiar with the area and could lead the way, it still took some time for them to find their way to the fortress. Belderon's chosen dominion was part of a mountain, a citadel half formed from natural caves, merged with parts of his own creation. Sariel had explored many of the natural passages and had found ways in and out of the mountain of which even Belderon was not fully aware. Some were constantly becoming blocked, even as other, older tunnels opened up. It was hard to locate the openings in the dark and it took Sariel two more tries before she found a passageway that could be used, but at last they all disappeared into the mountain.

The absence of guards surprised Sariel, but based on what she knew from before and observed now, it was clear that Belderon had made the breeding grounds of the orcs on the other side of the mountain. Still, it was not like Belderon to overlook any detail and it seemed too much like he was deliberately taunting them, asserting his power by making it a faceless entity.

Once inside, she stopped before they ventured deeper. "It would be better if you stayed here," she told Gandalf and Lianderthral in a low voice. "Do not risk your life for this. I do this for Lessena, but you have no obligation to her."

"Yet we have one to you, Sariel." Lianderthral's voice was casual, but she had argued with him enough to know that he would not change his mind. "You will not face him alone."

She had to at least try, after what she had seen and Belderon's seeming lack of security measures. "I think he is waiting for me and knows exactly where we are, even what we will do. Belderon has never been foolish and his greatest talent is to read the fault lines in a person's soul. We have underestimated him."

"Perhaps he has overestimated his own abilities," Gandalf countered. "If he is able to see weaknesses, perhaps he should have devoted some time to also examining a person's strengths. He underestimated you, Sariel."

"The longer we spend here as you try to persuade us to turn back, the greater the chance that Belderon will be ready for us," Lianderthral added. "Lead the way."

She did as she was told, feeling helpless to protect them and not even understanding why she was trying to refuse the help that could save her sister's life. She only knew that she could no longer do it—she could no longer justify trading one life for another. Before, there had only been Lessena and her mother, but now, she realized with a sinking feeling that Lianderthral meant more to her, or at least just as much, as they. How had that come about? How was it possible?

It was dark and damp inside and Sariel had only been down the passage once, for fear that it would come to Belderon's attention. It was strange; over the centuries, she had always imagined that one day she would use this to escape from inside the mountain. Over and over, each day she had thought of another scenario, another possibility for freedom. Yet never had she imagined that she would be willingly entering into the heart of Belderon's fortress from the outside.

The passage was so small and cramped that they went one at a time, crouching down to nearly half their height and sometimes forced to crawl. Other times, there was barely enough space for them to squeeze through. The only one who did not need to struggle was Kaeloriel, who brought up the rear. For all of them alike, the constant sound of dripping water wore away at their nerves until it seemed unbearable for them to stay another moment in the threatening darkness. Again and again, Sariel fought back panic, no longer sure if she was even leading them in the right way.

Perhaps Belderon would not even need to kill them. Should they become trapped or lost in the hundreds of dead-end tunnels, the mountain itself would take care of them. Frequent, strong, chilly gusts of wind made the warren-like spaces echo cacophonously. Time seemed suspended as they crawled, so slowly that it seemed that they were going in circles whenever they came to another juncture that looked exactly like the one they had just passed. The longer it took, the more Sariel wondered if something had happened since she had found the tunnel. It was possible that it had become blocked inside the mountain.

Gradually, however, it seemed as if they had begun to ascend. The air smelled less of decay and still water, as if it had begun to mingle with another, fresher source. Like half-blind mice, the three of them came to a slightly bigger pocket in the stone, enough for them to stand side to side.

Lianderthral stifled a despairing cry at the sight that confronted them: smooth, stone walls. They had come to a dead end.

But Sariel finally knew where they were. She had come to the same dead end before and they now retraced their steps for a short while before making a different turn. When they came upon the unused chamber, it was a sudden discovery.

The relief that Lianderthral and Gandalf felt when they stood tall and breathed in the fresher air was blatant to Sariel. She, on the other hand, had expected such difficulties but also relaxed a little at seeing the sparse, covered furniture. In the dim glow of Gandalf's light, they looked skeletal and ghostly, but they were also familiar.

"Be alert for guards," she told Lianderthral and Gandalf, barely before they made a sharp turn and nearly collided full-on with an orc. Kaeloriel had growled a warning, but none of them had reacted until it was too late. There was a moment of surprise from both sides and the orc opened his mouth to cry out. In the same instant, Sariel realized he was not wearing armor. Her knife flashed up to the exposed throat and dark, viscous blood sprayed over them, splattering onto the walls. Quickly, Lianderthral moved forward to catch the orc, struggling to slowly lower its mass down to the floor to minimize the sound of a falling body.

"Hurry," Sariel urged her companions when they seemed about to hide the body in one of the side chambers. "Leave it. If Belderon had any sort of tie with the creature, it may be that he knows exactly where we are. He is expecting us to come sooner or later and although I doubt he expected us to act so quickly once we arrived, he has the advantage over us. Lessena is still a hostage and I believe that he is willing to use her."

"How do you know where he is keeping her?" Lianderthral asked.

She shook her head. "Given what we have seen so far, I am sure he has not moved her. Belderon will have assigned more guards, but since he has always kept her and my mother in the most secure place, there would be no better alternative."

With no further talk, they continued to follow Sariel, occasionally encountering pairs of guards and overwhelming them before any cry of alarm could alert the others to their intrusion. As Sariel had feared, it seemed that Belderon had prepared in advance for her, even if he did not expect others to be helping. If she had entered the mountain alone, she would have been overwhelmed.

"Belderon has the only key," she finally confessed to Gandalf, Lianderthral, and the waiting wolf when they stood outside of Lessena's room. Despite her words, she reached out for the doorknob, resting her hand on it for a brief moment before she tried turning it. As she had expected, it turned easily, and without letting go, she looked over her shoulder at Gandalf.

"He has left it unlocked for a reason. Stay outside and secure this doorway while I go in. There is only one way in and out of the room, so if he traps all three of us in there, it will go badly."

"Sariel, you know that means he must be waiting inside," Lianderthral hissed, trying to stop her before she opened the door. "Don't be foolish!"

"I knew that before I came," she replied. "What other way is there?"

"Then remember that tonight your only objective should be to bring out Lessena," Gandalf interrupted sharply. "Engage him only in defense."

"And if she walks in there and Belderon has a knife to Lessena's throat?" Lianderthral asked, directing his question to Gandalf rather than Sariel, as if he knew the futility of trying to reason with her.

Before either of them could say more, Sariel pushed against the heavy door with all of her weight and almost stumbled into the room. In a few moments, her eyes had adjusted to the partial darkness.

The room seemed empty and for a moment she wondered if she had been completely wrong about Belderon's intentions. However, a single fat white candle was burning on the table and as she went further into the room, her eyes sought out the shape of the bed. The weak, flickering light illuminated a white shape, but it was not until she drew nearer that she realized what it was.

Relief rushed through her in a sweet flood, replacing the numbness that had seized her ever since she had entered the mountain citadel. There were no immediate signs of abuse or injury, although on a closer look, Sariel could see the dark bruises that seemed to have always been on Lessena's pale skin, even more noticeable since Lessena was wearing a sleeveless white shift. Drawing the sheets back further, Sariel could see that Lessena's hands were bound together with chains so delicate that they could easily have been mistaken for jewelry. Each thin wrist was wrapped with metallic strands no thicker than a hair, but Sariel knew from experience that they were unbreakable. Whatever power that had gone into the chains made them most likely indestructible, but she hoped that this time she could counter power with power.

"Lessena," Sariel called, putting her hand on her sister's shoulder and gently shaking, holding her breath in fear. _Wake up_, she mentally chanted.

Ash-colored lashes flickered briefly before Lessena woke. Too relieved to find her sister still breathing, Sariel was oblivious to her panicked expression until a shadow that briefly blocked the candlelight made her turn.

Belderon was sitting at the table, smiling pleasantly at her. "So, my pet. You have deigned to visit your master again. Are you ready to come back to me?"

_Never_, she wanted to say with all the defiance she felt, but she was motionless, wordless.

"I did not think so," Belderon continued, as if musing to himself. His eyes studied her intently, the almost colorless irises striking in his handsome face, and Sariel remembered how it felt like to be under the gaze of the oldest Elves. Like Galadriel, Belderon seemed to look through her rather than at her. "Yes, you have ever tried to escape, my little nightingale. When will you accept that it is futile to try?"

His voice slid over her silkily and full of reason. It was like last time, and the time before, and the time before that. It was like every time she had tried to run from him, only to face the powerful web of his rhetoric. Sariel looked at him, fear turning her mind blank.

"You are bound to me by ties of blood," he reminded her, ever so gently as if wishing to spare her despair. "There is no place on this earth where you will be free of me, any more than there is any way you can live without the blood in your veins."

Unable to think, Sariel reacted instinctively, her body responding to Belderon's provocations as she picked up Lessena with all her strength and ran for the door. Her sister was disturbingly light, hardly weighing more than a child, but the additional burden still slowed Sariel down.

Something hissed through the air and Lessena let out an anguished cry. Lianderthral burst through the doorway just as Sariel reached it, catching her when she stumbled. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a glittering chain slice through the air again, the sound prompting Lianderthral to instinctively raise his arm to protect them from the striking object.

"No!" she cried out, but too late. The chain wrapped around his upraised arm instead of Lessena's neck and snapped tight. It was of the same material as the bindings on Lessena's wrists, so thin that at such a high speed, it cut straight into the flesh. Lianderthral let out a cry as Belderon jerked hard on the other end of the chain, tightening it around his arm like a garrote. A thin line of red appeared briefly before more blood gushed out as Sariel watched in horror, knowing that the cut tendons and muscle might never heal properly.

That was provided that they got away at all, of course.

Looking at Belderon, a blinding anger filled Sariel, so strong it made her head ache with pressure. Her heart pounded as she felt the power rush through her as if she had drawn it out of the stone walls around her, and somehow, she knew that this old, hollow mountain had once been full of fire and molten rock. For a moment all she could see were flames, bright and beautiful, the red and orange streaming together in a searing display that hurt to look at. She saw burnished golds and glowing metal; she watched as the black spots of impurities disappeared.

"Sariel!" Lessena's voice in her ear drew her back to reality, the images replaced with the sight of Belderon surrounded by a fire that burned solely from stone. Seeing the chain that he still held, Sariel imagined it as it must have been when first created—liquid and white-hot silver. The chain could not be severed, but under the focus of Sariel's intent, a part of it melted away, breaking the connection between the two Elves. Through the flickering flames, she heard the clash of sword blades and realized that Gandalf had engaged Belderon, giving them a chance to retreat.

Lessena was standing unsteadily on her own feet now, leaning heavily on her, and Sariel's eyes flickered desperately between her sister, Lianderthral, and the fighting. Even wounded as badly as he was, Lianderthral was helping Gandalf distract Belderon, throwing his unique powers into the fight. With her hands and feet bound, Lessena could not run, but try as she might, Sariel could not duplicate what she had done to melt the chains. Although she was strong enough to carry Lessena part of the way, they would never make it out before Belderon's guards caught them. The only reason why they had not come rushing to their master's aid was that Belderon must have given orders to be left alone with Lessena. That, and she could hear Kaeloriel outside of the room fighting with tooth and claw.

Seeing Sariel's hesitation and comprehending the reason for it, Lessena weakly pushed her sister away. "Leave me," she said. "Go while you can!"

"I came for _you_," Sariel told her as they stumbled down the corridor together, but as they neared the turn, she looked back to where Gandalf and Lianderthral were still deflecting Belderon's attacks. It looked like even with two against one, they were having a hard time.

"Sariel, help them," Lessena cried, suddenly pushing Sariel toward the trio, far more strongly than her last attempt. "Do you want them to die because of us?"

Seeing the fear in Lessena's face, Sariel understood that even in a moment as crucial as this, Lessena was not actually afraid of losing her own life. She had planned this rescue believing that Lessena was like herself, that she would seize the chance to escape and accept the costs, whatever they would turn out to be. But ultimately, they were too different. Lessena could not put herself above others, as Sariel could. Ultimately, she was unwilling to value her own life more than others, as her colder sister had chosen.

"We have to lock Belderon in the room," Lessena said, determination making her voice strong. "It is the only place that can hold him long enough for you to leave."

Sariel stared at her, realizing that she was right. Even now, Belderon was fighting with Lianderthral and Gandalf on the threshold of the room. It was the most secure place in the entire mountain and although Belderon would undoubtedly be able to free himself, it would not be easy even for him. Sariel had studied the room for years, looking for flaws in its layout and hoping that one day Lorianiel and Lessena would be able to leave.

"Stay here, Lessena," she said abruptly, squeezing her sister's hands one last time before turning and running down the corridor to the fighting.

"Ah, I see. You are Mithrandir," Belderon was saying with an ugly sneer. "How have I deserved the honor of your attention?"

It was the last thing he said for several minutes as Sariel attacked. One-on-one, she knew herself to be inferior to Belderon, but with Gandalf and Lianderthral to either side of her, the three of them were too much for Belderon alone. Still, he had obviously put safeguards in place should the situation get out of hand. There was no shout, no angry orders, but suddenly, several guards poured out from both sides of the corridor, trapping them in the middle.

Their united attack broken, Sariel found herself deflecting not Belderon's sword, but that of an orc's. Lessena must have been taken again. Feeling the sudden surge of despair, she blocked, straining to hold the sword in the correct position with a one-handed grip as her left hand reached down to her waist to draw her knife. With vicious force, she jabbed upward into the vulnerable hollow of the orc's throat, feeling a satisfying warm gush of liquid.

"Sariel!" Lessena screamed. Instantly responding to her sister's warning, Sariel dropped to a crouch while turning, narrowly missing a blow from an axe. Even as she rose again to take care of her new opponent, she knew that the longer they spent here, the smaller their chances of ever getting out. More guards would rally and block off all escape routes.

Contrary to what she expected, Lessena had not been held by the guards. Instead, Sariel saw a blur of white as her sister ran through the cluster of fighting—toward Belderon.

Too late, Sariel realized what was going on. "NO! Lessena, stop!"

But her sister had already thrown herself at Belderon, who barely drew back his sword in time to narrowly avoid giving her a fatal blow. Caught by surprise by Lessena's unexpected move, the two of them crashed to the ground inside the room.

Distracted by what was happening, the orc she was fighting managed to score a shallow slice across Sariel's collarbone. She gritted her teeth against the instant trail of pain and focused her attention again. It only took three more moves before she left the guard on the ground, not yet dead but fatally wounded.

Just as she looked back toward the room, she saw the heavy door swing shut with a massive _clang!_, causing the stone corridor to reverberate. A quick glance told Sariel everything she needed to know: Gandalf and Lianderthral were still fighting over the latest group of attackers, but Lessena was nowhere in sight.

"LESSENA!" Her cry was too little, too late. Her sister had locked Belderon in the prison as they had intended, but she had locked herself in as well!

The frustration and anguish made Sariel sink to her knees as she stared at the closed door in disbelief and wondered what was happening on the other side. Was Lessena even alive after Belderon understood the trick she had played?

She had thought that the sudden silence in the corridor after the door closed was a product of her imagination, but when it continued, Sariel looked around dazedly, taking in bodies that littered the ground and the figures of Lianderthral and Gandalf, both covered with blood, the dark liquid still dripping off their weapons. Kaeloriel was there too, muzzle stained with orc blood.

"She chose to do it," Lianderthral said in way of explanation, grimacing as he attempted to quickly wrap a length of cloth around his left arm with his right. His face was pale from blood loss and his arm looked like a red ruin, but all Sariel could think was, _why didn't any of us stop her?_

He put a consoling hand to her shoulder and for a moment, Sariel wanted to just shrug it off. Instead, his light touch as he tugged at her elbow, clearly wanting her to get up, unexpectedly made tears come to her eyes. Astonished at herself, Sariel hurriedly wiped them away.

"We have to go, Sariel," Lianderthral murmured. "Show us the way." Gandalf was already striding down the corridor when Sariel stood up, unable to believe that they had come so close. She had even held Lessena in her arms, had discovered a way to break the metal threads that Belderon used as chains, and they had still lost.

"Sariel!" Gandalf's voice was sharp and commanding, in marked contrast to Lianderthral's gentle tone. "Quickly, before other guards come. Lead us out."

She walked past the door numbly, unable to even look at the metal barricade that separated her from her sister. No sound could be heard from inside the room, but that likely only meant that Lessena was unconscious or dead. Desperation welled in her and she thought again of fire. If she could only melt away the barrier or do something to release the fury she felt—but instead, she was helpless, hopeless. Even if she found a way to release her sister, she would have to face the monster again, and they had already discovered that they were no match for him.

They had waited too long. Another group of eight orcs marched into one end of the corridor, looking more as though they had been patrolling rather than explicitly called to come fight. Besides the door, Sariel hesitated, hands reaching out to feel the smooth metal beneath—she tried to summon up the feeling she had experienced earlier, as if the mountain were whispering to her its secrets. It was no use.

Gandalf and Lianderthral had already begun to fight, but they were too badly outnumbered and already tired and wounded. Lianderthral's movements were no longer graceful, each sweep of his sword cut short as he gasped for breath, clearly fighting against agonizing pain. Looking at him, Sariel felt such a strong mixture of emotions that for a moment, the metal beneath her hands heated and seemed ready to yield. Before she could test the barrier, Gandalf grabbed her arm and wrenched her away from the door.

"Sariel, come! We have to leave her," Gandalf roared above the clash of weaponry. The only thing that was saving them was that the corridor was narrow, so the orcs could only come at them in pairs. As the two in front went down, they temporarily entangled those behind them.

She took a deep breath and began to run, choosing the right twists and turns from memory as Lianderthral and Gandalf followed, Kaeloriel training behind. Still, they had almost been overtaken when Lianderthral grabbed her hand. "Remember what I taught you? We must cut them off with air."

They had practiced this many times before. Without even thinking, Sariel summoned Air as Lianderthral had taught her to, staring into his eyes as she did so. Her control was not strong enough and she could not concentrate fully, but she felt Lianderthral behind her, physically and mentally bolstering her. The wild gust they raised effortlessly pushed the orcs behind them to the ground.

The exit was not too far ahead now, but the door was clearly locked. Gandalf reached out with his staff in his hand and dealt it a crushing blow. It blew outwards in an explosion of wooden fragments and the three of them ran out. The forest area immediately around the mountain was more familiar to Sariel than any other place could have been, and she led them swiftly away.

She was shaking, but whether from exhaustion or excitement, she could not tell. Gandalf appeared largely uninjured and although she had been slashed across her collarbone, it was a surface wound. Only Lianderthral had suffered the worst of it, especially since he had been defending her when she had stopped in front of the door, paying no attention whatsoever to the danger around her. Seeing how he had been hurt because of her, Sariel felt mingled pain and anger because she finally understood why Lessena had locked herself away with Belderon.

Sariel had always seen Lessena as weaker than her, but her sister was braver in some ways. Lessena was not afraid of death. She had always seen herself in relation to other people, while Sariel always tried to believe that she was independent because it justified her choice to put her own life before the lives of others. Again and again, Sariel had asked herself why she should care about the welfare of strangers.

But now, looking at the dark bloodstains on Lianderthral's clothes and the way he tried to act nonchalant to cover up the pain, Sariel understood that there were some things not worth sacrificing for freedom.

* * *

They wandered in circles around the actual campsite until they were sure that not even the most skilled trackers would be able to find them. Lianderthral was becoming faint with blood loss and Sariel knew that the three of them had truly reached the limits of their strength.

As soon as they arrived, they were greeted by Vanidar, who had been waiting precisely for their return. It was painfully apparent to all that nothing good had actually come of their attempt; three had gone forth and only three had come back—and they were hurt.

"What do you need?" Vanidar quickly asked. Sariel helped Lianderthral lower himself to the ground while Vanidar examined the chain embedded in his arm. Most of it could not be seen since it was deep inside his flesh, tightened around the bone of his upper arm, but Vanidar could deduce what had happened when he saw the remnants of the thin wire.

"I am not badly wounded and Gandalf likewise, but Lianderthral took the brunt of it. How is it?" she asked softly. Lianderthral had closed his eyes and was as white as the snow. She doubted that it was simply a symptom of shock.

Vanidar looked up. "I have never encountered anything like this chain. I do not know how to remove it."

"It cannot be broken by any ordinary means," Sariel told him. "Before today, I thought that there was no way of removing such a chain at all."

She was used to the sight and smell of blood, used to seeing things far worse than the way Lianderthral's flesh had been cut to the bone, yet she almost felt queasy now at the thought of severed tendons and muscles. This, more than anything, told her how much she had changed and softened during her time at Lothlórien, and how much she truly cared for him. The only thing that slightly comforted her was the thought that it had not been his sword arm.

"We have to remove the chain as quickly as possible," she said. "It may have been coated in poison."

"Then we will have to cleanse the wound first and to do that we will need a fire." Vanidar looked at her questioningly, but Sariel hardly noticed that he was putting her into a leadership position.

"A small one. We cannot risk attracting attention."

The snow melted slowly over the tiny fire and all the time Sariel watched Lianderthral with growing concern. For the first time since she had left Lothlórien, she regretted that the Elves there had taken away her collection of medicines and herbs that would have allowed her to check for poison—or to administer it.

"Will cauterizing the wound cause further damage?" Sariel asked Vanidar in a low voice as they waited. "I think I know how to break the chain, but it would require melting the metal."

"I do not see any other alternative," Vanidar admitted. "It will be very painful and it is difficult to tell how much permanent damage will come from this."

Lianderthral awoke with a small cry of pain when Vanidar cut through the makeshift bandages and began to wash the wound. While Sariel knelt next to him and held his hand in sympathy—and not a little guilt—he focused on her with difficulty.

"It is poison," he muttered. "I have not yet taught you this, but perhaps you can sense it. If you recognize it…"

"I—" Sariel began uncertainly, and then cut herself off. "How can I tell?"

"Follow the movement of the blood," he tried to explain, but Vanidar had given him an analgesic and while he seemed more comfortable now that something was working against the pain, he was also clearly becoming disoriented. No one knew what he meant, but Sariel had to try anyway.

She closed her eyes as she held his hand, trying to calm herself with the thought of steady, strongly flowing water. It took a long time for her thoughts to be focused. Each time she felt as if she had somehow made a connection, slipping under Lianderthral's skin for a moment, she was distracted by a newfound worry. Without guidance, she was trying everything and achieving nothing. It was a while before she even remembered to repeat the earliest exercises Lianderthral had given her.

Sinking into an almost meditative state, she gradually became almost as aware of his body as of her own. It started as a small ache and then grew into an acute, penetrating pain despite the local anesthetics that they had applied. Lianderthral himself seemed to be sleeping, but it was only an effect of the sedation. She could feel how hard it was for his body to function, as if something were slowing everything down, blocking the natural flow of blood. Whenever she tried to think of the injury itself, she found herself slipping out of rapport she had found with him.

She was not sure what she was doing, but she could not afford to waste time questioning why it was possible. Instead, Sariel let herself be drawn closer to him, matching him breath for breath, heartbeat for heartbeat. Lianderthral had told her about following the movement of blood, not it itself a logical thing to say, but she understood it now—it was the essence of life, and the essence of blood was water.

Opening her eyes, Sariel detached herself with a gasp. The loss of that inexplicable connection was hard to take but she was relieved by what she had found.

"It is not fatal," she told them, watching as the tense faces before her transformed. "I know what it is, but I will have to search for the antidote. For now, we must take the chain off. The longer it stays on, the more poison his body will have to fight."

"Then we must try melting the chain as you said before. It is encircled around his bone tightly, but we may be able to loosen it enough that you can break it without harming him further…but any attempts to do so will cause a great deal of pain."

"He still feels it," Sariel remembered. "Even with what you have given him."

"It would be dangerous to give him more," he explained, "especially because I do not know how it will react with the poison already in his body."

Vanidar drew a deep breath and asked Sariel to hand him her dagger. He knelt on the other side of Lianderthral, so Sariel was unable to see exactly what he did, but the tip of the dagger had disappeared into Lianderthral's arm and she could tell that it was probing for the chain. Lianderthral's entire body tensed, although thankfully he remained mostly unconscious. Sariel could do no more than hold his hand.

"He did it to save Lessena's life," she murmured as she brushed a lock of hair back from Lianderthral's forehead. "Belderon intended for it to go around her neck."

Vanidar caught her eye and shook his head in disagreement. "For you," he stated simply, and the dagger glinted when it moved. Sariel focused at the same time, imagining a pinpoint of power so intense and white-hot that it could melt the chain.

Lianderthral cried out, as did Sariel—blood was everywhere, but their efforts together had made the chain loose enough that Vanidar could now pull it off. It was a reddish thing until he dropped it into the water, and then it glittered silver again when it emerged, although the basin was completely red. The sickening smell of burned flesh filled the air and Sariel turned away, fighting not to be sick when her stomach tried to rebel. She had probably done even more muscle and nerve damage in melting the chain, but there had been no alternative.

Silently Vanidar worked to cleanse the wound, skilled hands doing their best to minimize the damage. "I can do the rest," he said to Sariel. "But we must have the antidote."

"Will he be all right?" The tone of her voice pleaded for Vanidar to give a positive answer, but when he looked at her, his expression was somber.

"For now, we can only keep him warm. The drugs I gave him will make his thoughts wander, but it is the only way to ease his pain. He has lost a lot of blood and if his condition worsens, there is little we can actually do. The true extent of his injury will not be known for some time."

"The herb that Belderon used is rare in this forest; he knows better than to use a poison that can be easily cured. I may be gone for a long time. If need be, you must all move to another place. It will not be too difficult for me to find you again." Sariel rose to her feet, her eyes still on Lianderthral.

"Hurry," Vanidar said, already bent over his patient again. "I have every faith in you, Sariel. Help me heal him."

"He was only hurt because of me," she said bitterly.

She turned away quickly, just in time to hide the tear that slipped down her cheek. Sariel closed her eyes and tried to steady herself, to push all emotions away and focus only on the task before her, which was more important at this moment than anything else. She did not have the luxury of bitterness or self-pity, or even that of guilt. She saw the faces of her companions without actually registering them in her mind—all except the last.

She looked at his face for a moment without meeting his eyes, simply taking in the high cheekbones and the smooth Elven features free of emotion. The two of them were as alike as brothers in appearance and she had grown too close to both of them, largely through her own carelessness. Now they had something else in common.

After all, she could not ignore the sharp ache in her heart that reminded her that Lianderthral was not the first person she had hurt so badly.

* * *

A/N: As always, **please review**! Thanks – E.D.

_Finalized January 2009 _


	12. Poison Antidote

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

Note: In this story Elves sleep as humans do, with eyes closed. Four hours (as Tolkien explains) is enough. _This is a deviation from canon._ To be honest, I think that sleeping with your eyes open is creepy and scientifically illogical. Some animals and birds do sleep with one eye open but in humans, sleeping with your eyes even partially open can lead to damage to your corneas. Eyelids are designed to protect our eyes and blinking keeps them from drying out. In any case, I'm aware this isn't canonical, so please refrain from comments telling me so.

* * *

**Chapter 12: Poison Antidote**

* * *

Sariel slipped through the night, accompanied only by the dark shape by her side. She could not fathom why the wolf had chosen to be with her, but she was glad of his presence all the same. The wolf's sharp intelligence had surprised her at first, yet over the last few months, she had come to admire Kaeloriel greatly. There was an understanding between them now, and when she looked into his golden eyes, she knew that they were two predators in different forms.

Kaeloriel's keen nose would help her in her search for the herb. The only worry Sariel had was that he did not know what she was looking for, and she had no way of showing him. She tried her best to convey the idea to him when he found a plant similar to the one she looked for, and was slightly reassured by the way he acted, as if he understood.

She wondered again why he was helping them at all. He had left his pack while his mate struggled to lead them through a hard winter, an unusual action whether he was truly a wild wolf, or something more, as she suspected. So why had he come with them and how was he associated with Belderon? In all her years, Sariel could not remember Belderon having anything to do with natural animals. Possessed with instinct, they fled from him and the lands around his fortress.

Even now, the forest around them was silent, more dead than alive. She focused on looking for the jagged-edged leaves of _silphieron_, the plant that would counter the poison in Lianderthral's body. She had found it in this forest before, but never easily. Still, the mere fact that an antidote was available made her question why Belderon had used a non-fatal poison on the chain. But remembering Belderon's initial use of the chain, she understood.

He had meant it for Lessena. He probably had the antidote himself, but if Sariel's sister had been drugged, she would have been even more complaisant, and it would have made any rescue attempt harder. As it was, Lianderthral had barely made it out.

Although guilt and worry still ate at her, the thought gave her some hope, because it meant that Belderon wanted Lessena alive, at least for now. She would likely be severely punished for her trick in sealing both of them inside the room, but Belderon valued her too much as a bargaining chip to simply kill her, especially since Sariel was still free.

Ahead, small red berries caught her eye and she ran up to a plant with dark green leaves. When she bent down for a closer look, however, she found that it was _silphieron's_ larger, distant relative, the holly bush. Kaeloriel sniffed the plant and encouraged, she tried to impress on him that the herb she was looking for was similar in appearance and probably scent. Disappointed that she had not yet found it, she moved on again to the banks of one of the several small streams that cross the forest. The plant generally grew near water, between the rocks that lined the brooks and creeks, but it was small. Knowing exactly how much Lianderthral needed it only increased the desperation of her search.

People had died because of her. Rationally, she knew that she had directly caused death many times and would likely do so again, and yet emotionally, she could not handle the thought of Lianderthral dying for nothing—dying because of her foolish endeavors, because he was good and wanted to save a stranger. The knot of worry and fear in her stomach grew bigger as she realized that even if he survived this, there was still a high likelihood that any association with her would only end badly for him. She could not stand the thought of it. She could not apologize for what she had done—on some level, she did not believe that she should—but if Lianderthral died tonight, it was as good as if she had poisoned him herself.

No, even if she lost Lessena for it, she would not contribute to his death.

As soon as the thought crossed her mind, Sariel stopped in her tracks, shocked to find that she truly meant it. It was not a fleeting whim. It was a decision that she had already made, ever since she had felt her mother die. She would not kill for Belderon again, even if the cost was her sister's life.

Turning this over in her mind, she felt cold and small, as if she had betrayed even her deepest principles. She had focused her life around the protection of her mother and sister, believing that it gave her a justification for what she had done. But without that, what was left? If she was unwilling to trade Lianderthral's life for Lessena's, then nothing she had done in the past made sense.

Kaeloriel's growl broke her out of the trance she had fallen into and Sariel realized that she had come to a standstill, so caught up in the implications of her thoughts that she had stopped actively searching. The wolf nudged her leg with his nose, acting almost dog-like, but she barely noticed.

Her newfound revelation made her stomach churn with mixed feelings. Sariel knew what Lessena would have wanted; her sister would never have approved of Sariel's activities for her and Lorianiel's sake. In fact, Sariel had never been sure of exactly how much Lessena knew about all. Lorianiel had certainly understood what her elder daughter had become, but Sariel had never known if her mother had shared that knowledge with Lessena, or decided to spare her younger sister of that particular burden.

Lorianiel's voice seemed to whisper in Sariel's ear even now, bitterness lacing every word. _It's hard enough to live, knowing that your life is sustained on the deaths of others_.

When her mother had told her that, Sariel had simply raised her chin, looking Lorianiel straight in the eyes and challenging her to deny that she still wanted to live, no matter how awful that life was, no matter how selfish that desire. They had never spoken of it again and Lorianiel had continued to live. Evidently, she had valued her life too much as well. After all, the same blood, the same inner strength that flowed through Sariel's veins had been in her mother's, although the years had eventually worn her down until her spirit began to fade. But Lorianiel's bitterness and guilt had remained with Sariel, always lurking in the areas of her memory that she least wanted to acknowledge.

Perhaps that was why, even as she ostensibly followed Belderon's commands in order to keep her family safe, Sariel had still begun to distance herself from Lorianiel and Lessena. Part of her wanted more than anything to see them, to even join them in their imprisonment. Another part of her, the part that had allowed her development into an assassin, betraying all the principles of her race, had kept her away. She had fought to keep them alive and yet had lost something in her success.

In a way, Lianderthral meant more to her. She had ended up killing strangers in order to save other strangers. Lessena had been a mere child when Belderon had torn their family apart, whereas Sariel had been entering adulthood. Though they were sisters, they had almost nothing in common. Their experiences were vastly different and visits had been limited, with Belderon's ever-watchful eye curtailing any bond they might have developed. In the first years of Sariel's training, Belderon had kept them completely separate—first, to encourage Sariel to greater devotion, using her family as her reward, but also, paradoxically, to force her to learn the necessary emotional detachment required for her kind of work.

So Sariel had become almost religiously dedicated to Lorianiel and Lessena, making them the reason for everything, yet without any real reason to do so. It kept her sane when she might have slipped too far. There was a goal to all the killings, other than simply Belderon's whim: Sariel had a _purpose_, and that was to keep the only two beings connected to her, in whatever way, alive.

Now she faced the terrifying realization that there was no purpose at all.

Kaeloriel turned curious golden eyes to her when she shivered and hesitated, the sound of the rush of blood in her ears accompanied by lightheadedness. Sariel briefly closed her eyes and then opened them to continue looking for the plant with jagged-edged leaves. She could not ignore the coldness that crept through her, the fear that the last little bit of her world had broken down.

It had not been in the moment when she had found she could not quite kill the prince of Mirkwood as ordered. It was not even in the haze of pain and hurt in the days that followed, or even in the feeling of life slipping away as her mother had finally died. It was not love that had stopped her from killing Legolas, but rather hesitation.

But now, Sariel was no longer unsure. Somehow, between her experiences with Legolas and Lianderthral, she had given up something she had lived by for her entire life. She had never fooled herself into believing that her actions were right. But she was willing to do wrong, because if she had the means and the power to save her mother and sister, she was willing to put them ahead of strangers she did not know.

Only, who were the strangers? Even if she did not know Lessena, she could not simply let go, and yet that was what she _wanted_ to do. But had she really changed so much that she could watch her sister die because she was simply unwilling to kill again? She had done it so many times before. A month ago, she would never have had a doubt. Even when she had found out that her target was Legolas, she had still resolved to carry out the assassination and nearly succeeded. She would have done anything to prevent harm from befalling the two people she still had a connection with. But now… Now nothing was as clear as before.

She still wanted freedom. She still wanted everything that had been denied to her because of Belderon's interference in their lives. But even wanting it, she was conscious of the price for it. She was beginning to see that even for her, there were some limits.

Legolas had been one, she realized now, and Lianderthral, another. For whatever reasons, despite whatever the consequences, she could not let them die. She simply could not. _Not even at the expense of my own life_?

Once she had asked the question, she could not take it back. Sariel held herself stiffly in the chill night air to stop herself from shivering, her arms folded tightly against her chest as if to hold herself together. She took a deep breath and exhaled in a white puff, renewing her focus on the true task ahead of her.

Everything else could wait. She could not let herself be distracted by thoughts when other things were so much more important. What use was it to think about what it meant for her to be unwilling to let Lianderthral die, if he did so anyway because of her failure to make the antidote?

Kaeloriel had disappeared to explore other areas but now came bounding back, only to stop a few feet away from her. To her shock, his black fur rose up and he bared his teeth to her, a low snarl coming from his throat. She saw the wolf tense and a thrill of fear ran up her spine, her body tingling as if little needles were pricking her skin. Before she had even taken another breath, Kaeloriel leapt at her and she found herself on the ground. But she hardly saw the wolf; all her attention was directed inward and she lost consciousness under the pressure of the disorienting fears and memories churned up from her mind.

* * *

"Belderon," she choked out as soon as she woke. He was there, brutally invading her mind, the onslaught on her identity making her whimper. She was curled on her side, knees coming up to her chest and both hands to her head as if trying to tear him out of her mind. But she could do nothing to stop him. The vial of blood at her throat burned both hot and cold; her hand came down blindly to touch it, the ultimate proof of her continuing bondage to him. It was a sharp, throbbing agony against her throat.

_So, little pet, you came back to your master after all. Ready to sing, my nightingale? _

Even in her mind, his voice was as calm and self-assured as it always was, but now his words were edged by a cutting sarcasm. She felt almost as if he was burning her, but the sensation was worse than any physical pain. She could endure that, but no amount of training could lessen the effect of his control.

But it did provoke other things from her. Like a trapped animal, she lashed out, trying to hurt him even though she only hurt herself. He had always enjoyed taunting her and although she had heard all of it many times before, Sariel could not help her response. The basic instincts of anger, defiance, and fear had defined her for so long that sometimes she wondered if she could ever feel anything else.

Kaeloriel kept growling and dimly, she was aware that he was on top of her, paws digging into her ribs and teeth only a few inches from her exposed throat, but the wolf was not interested in taking her life. There was nothing for him to attack, only a phantom presence in her mind.

_Your sister surprised both of us, did she not? I am pleased to see some fire from her. I have always wished that she were a little more like you._

"She will never be like me," Sariel stated as coolly as she could, fighting for some semblance of equality. "What do you want from me?"

Belderon ignored the question. She felt his pleasure in her pretense. They both knew that even though she had walked free, the blood-oath still bound her to him, slave to master. _Oh, your sister is sweet indeed. Perhaps too sweet, even, but you have no need to worry. I have treated her like royalty, as if she were a princess…of Mirkwood._

Beneath his pretty words was the ugly reminder of what had happened to Legolas's sister, Rhiannon. Her defilement and death had set so much into motion, creating endless echoes of pain and grief from that one initial crime. So many years later, Sariel and her family were the ones still suffering in the Belderon's web, despite never having known any of those first involved. Who was Rhiannon to her but a ghost from the past?

Yet the gift of clear memory that all Elves possessed, like all gifts, could also be a curse. Belderon let the visions—his, not hers—flash through her mind, each lasting only a few seconds but coming relentlessly at her. Kaeloriel's growl turned into a questioning, worried whine. The wolf backed away from her as if he were caught between the fear of what he could only sense and his desire to attack it. Clenching her fists by her sides, Sariel slowly stood up, trying her best to clear her mind of Belderon's memories of Rhiannon. They still came anyway and she shook uncontrollably under the onslaught of vivid images.

There was a broken princess. Images flashed before Sariel's eyes, of blood that had dried over bruises and battered flesh. A body left limp and pale in death, the expression on her swollen face one of terror, not peace. A king fallen on his knees in recognition and denial. Faces twisted before her, turning grotesque. The evidence was brought forth of the unspeakable crime, the violation of the soul that had caused her death more thoroughly than the wounds from the stabbings.

He had been horrified. Sariel felt that much, knew that much—that at first, Belderon had been as horrified as the others. But his devotion to his son had outweighed the horror, and even in the course of a few hours, he had made a decision that he could never take back. His horror had turned into resolve.

More images, all soundless—now Faledin knelt before two figures that were on side-by-side thrones. Without hearing the words, Sariel knew that they were unrepentant and challenging. Even as the body lay before him, now mercifully covered with a black shroud, he denied his guilt.

Sariel knew what was coming, just as well as Belderon did: the sentencing to death by execution. The king would demand a life for a life, a child for a child.

Then she—Belderon—was striding forward toward the golden king in defense of his son, while all around, the horrified silence of the court gave way to the sound of tears. Slowly, a darker undercurrent began to build. Sariel felt Belderon's despair—then the blinding moment when Faledin died before his father's eyes—

And there was blood and dead, staring eyes, the same color as his mother's…a vivid grey that looked as if stars had been trapped in the irises. Afterward… afterward, there was just an emptiness that somehow had weight, the meaninglessness of life taking on an active power over him as the court began to recover from the tragedy.

It was almost an instinctive thing too, Belderon's revolt against his king…but there was an inkling of regret, of doubt. Sariel caught her breath, taken back to a time when Belderon had been no more than a lord grieving for his son's death, not yet _evil_ as she had always thought of him, but just another victim…

Who turned all the pain and rage outward, not inward, and began to kill others…

—then Sariel snapped back into herself, Belderon cutting off the torrent of memories so abruptly that her stomach tried to rebel from the sudden dislocation.

When had she fallen back down to her knees? But there she was, the ground cold and wet beneath her, her palms sinking into the dirty slush of snow. She had learned more about Belderon in those few seconds than in all of the centuries she served him. What she had found scared her more than anything else could have, because she was like Belderon. Whether it had been intentionally done or otherwise, Belderon had replicated for her most of the things that had changed him into what he was now. History kept spiraling around her in endless loops, layers and layers of circular patterns binding them all together…

But the last thing she had seen in Belderon's mind could not have been true. Lessena shared nothing in common with Rhiannon, could not have possibly followed in the tormented footsteps of that princess. But Belderon continued to whisper into her consciousness, where Sariel could not escape, could not stop herself from hearing the worlds.

_Yes, Sariel, you will have a new addition to your family soon—that is, if the mother survives that long. Will you seek to protect it too? Will you dirty even the most innocent of beings, at the beginning of a new life, with death?_

As the meaning of his words sank in, every last bit of feeling fled Sariel's body. "No…no, you cannot mean that…"

_So innocent_, Belderon continued in whispers that seem to reverberate through her numbed senses. She rocked back on her heels as if she had been slapped, hearing the truth in his satisfied tone. _Poor, tender Lessena. And to think how this will pain the Evenstar so, knowing that her betrothed has committed such acts of violation. __Do you think she will be able to bear it, to know that you have caused this? Do you think the Evenstar's light will fade? And Lessena. Ahhh, that poor, sweet, girl of ours. __Your sister is already half mad, but she will cling to life long enough for her child to be born. Because you do want Lessena to live, don't you, Sariel?_

Tears streamed down Sariel's face without her noticing. Kaeloriel's whines had increased in urgency and volume, but they were not enough to block out the horror of Belderon's words. Soft, thick fur brushed against her arm but she only hunched over more.

"I do not believe you," she cried into the silence of the forest, only to be answered by the faint, mocking echoes of Belderon's chuckles in her head. She raised her hands to cover her ears, desperately wishing she had not heard what he had said, not even conscious of how childishly she was acting. "I do not believe what you say! I do not believe your lies!"

_My dear, _Belderon said gently, but with supreme confidence. _Have I ever lied to you?_

Sariel wanted to continue her denial, wanted to scream back at him. There was only the empty, silent forest around her. She wanted to lash out at something, wanted something _to fight_—but Belderon remained a ghost in her mind. Was this the punishment he had given to Lessena for foiling his plans?

And even when faced with such knowledge, some practical part of her was urging her to ignore it in favor of doing what needed to be done right now, which was finding the antidote to Lianderthral's poison. Some part of her was urging her to hurry because Belderon may have engaged her in futile conversation only to distract her.

But deep down, she knew that what he said was the truth. It made all too much sense. It was the perfect revenge against all of them, more horrifying than simple death, because knowing that the cycle would continue on... How could it have come to this point?

_Do you think it will break Arwen completely, seeing how he is under my control even in this? _Belderon continued. _He has betrayed her with another, forcing himself like a common animal on one who has been a victim all her life. Do you believe she will continue to love you when she finds out what you have brought upon her?_

She could not answer him and the sound of her grief still seemed to be effortlessly swallowed up by the forest. "You monster," Sariel murmured at last, but there was no bite to her words, only defeat. "Why do you do this?"

He surprised her by hesitating before answering, almost as if he had been considering the question. It had been simpler before she had been forced to look at his life through his eyes. Now, it was as if part of her would always have part of him—his memories, his grief, his struggles.

_To make the hate run in her veins until it is as strong as that in mine_, Belderon told her slowly_. To show that in all of us, there is dark as well as light, and the Elves are fools if they believe otherwise. You are the greatest proof of that, Sariel. _

"No," she denied wearily. "I will never follow you again. You had power over me once, Belderon. You coerced me into becoming an extension of your will, into a remorseless killer. I blindly followed you, believing I had no choice otherwise. I wanted to believe I had no choice, because then everything that I have done would have been forced. But I had a choice, however limited, and now I have made it. No more, Belderon. Never again will I take a life for you."

_Do you truly believe that, Sariel? Can you give up the skills that a millennia of preparation have given you? You may believe what you like, my pet. The truth will find you in the end, and the darkness in your nature will appear again and again. I offer you a second chance. If you come quietly back to me, I will reward you. I have always been fair and honest with you, Sariel, even if you will not admit it. _

"You've been lying to me all my life," she whispered back.

_Have I? Everything you've done, you've done willingly, knowing the consequences. I can let your sister go and promise that your companions will not be harmed. Come back to me, and you free your sister's child. A new life, a new start. I can give you a gift more precious than anything else, Sariel. I can give Lessena new hope. I can offer her a different beginning for her child._

"There can never be hope while you still live and I continue to serve you," she replied. "I will never return to you alive, Belderon."

_As Aragorn may never have served me, before his death. Will you risk becoming my mindless slave? It is your choice, Sariel. If you return to me, we will continue, bound by blood-oaths neither of us can break. You will know exactly what you are doing with your skills. If you refuse to return, I will hunt you down and you will not even be released from me in death._

The threat in his soft words was a promise. Sariel wavered, seeing the bleak outcomes before her in her mind. He only wanted her to return. Deep down, she also knew that he was right—if she became his assassin again, at least there would be some pretense of a contract between them. If she died and became his minion in the same way Aragorn had, who knew what he could do with her?

"How can I believe what you say?"

_You know me well, my nightingale. I give you this chance. Return yourself to me and you can protect the ones you have grown so fond of. If you resist, how many will die?_

She felt immobilized, as if in a trance. Was this all that it came down to? His question sank into her mind, repeating over and over until she wanted to give in just to relieve herself of the terrible strain. As if in the grip of a dream, Sariel rose from her kneeling position, briefly unsteady on her feet. Ahead of her, she could see the top of the grey mountain and she walked in that direction, feeling as if there was almost some compulsion that had come over her. She did not fight it. She did not _want_ to fight it.

Everything was so confusing. She had wanted to have choices, and yet the danger of having the freedom to choose was the danger of choosing incorrectly. There was a responsibility to freedom that she had never felt before and it was almost too much to handle. It would be so easy to surrender and let Belderon dictate to her again, to retreat back into her shell, where there were no thoughts of right and wrong, no need to decide between these things.

Sariel had gone no more than a few steps when a black blur slammed into her side, knocking her to the ground. She had been so completely unaware of her surroundings that she fell painfully and without any technique, her reflexes slightly slow. Before she could even recover, Kaeloriel's strong jaws had locked around her arm, his teeth not yet breaking the skin, but if she tried to move, his fangs would undoubtedly sink into her flesh.

The fall chased away the numbness, flooding her with sensations and emotions. With abrupt clarity, she remembered Lianderthral and the way he had felt when she had seen him last. She had slipped into his skin and let down all her barriers so that they had almost breathed as one. Throughout her entire life, she had never felt so close to anybody as in that moment, the bond between them so natural, it was impossible to understand or question why. Lianderthral had risked everything for her, even knowing from the very beginning exactly what and who she was. If Legolas had learned to hate her because she had deceived him, Lianderthral had accepted her and made her feel as if she could be better than she really was.

Remembering the feeling of his body next to hers, something in Sariel's heart clenched painfully. He had shared more with her than just physical comfort that night that they had slept side by side. To Lianderthral, she was more than Belderon's assassin, far more than simply an Elf who had been misled into darkness. They were two of a kind. She had never felt as someone could understand what she had been through. Perhaps Lianderthral did, perhaps he did not, but he had his own past and his own griefs, and it seemed to make him less quick to judge than any other she had ever known.

Even her own mother had given up on her. How could she walk back to Belderon knowing that Lianderthral lay dying?

Uneasiness lingered there in the back of her mind and in her desperation, she tried to take off the vial of blood. The clasp would not unfasten, so she called fire to soften the metal in hopes that the chain could be broken. With trembling hands, she reached around her neck, certain that if she were freed of the necklace, she would be able to resist the temptation to give in to Belderon.

As soon as the clasp parted and the vial fell away, she sank to the ground, overcome by a disorienting wave of dizziness. Sariel gritted her teeth, waiting for it to pass, but it did not. Instead, the feeling grew until she thought she might faint. Kaeloriel nudged her arm with his nose and she turned to him, realizing that she could not continue. She felt blindly around for the vial, and when her fingers closed around the cool glass, she looped the vial back onto the necklace.

The blood-oath was binding, even now. Ties of blood, Belderon had called it, stronger even than the ties she had had with her mother and sister. Before she realized it, the necklace was around her neck again and her hands had dropped to her sides.

Dark spots covered her vision and she blinked until they faded. She could not free herself of him. As if from far away, she heard laughter—the kind of golden laugh that seemed so light and good, and yet she recognized Belderon in it, and felt sick. His control over her was unshakable.

_How many will die because of your resistance? _

She could not tell if it had been her thought or Belderon's, but it hardly mattered either way. The only thing she could be sure of right now was that she had to do anything in her power to save Lianderthral. Perhaps it was already too late. She had lost track of time and Belderon had delayed her. Her vision blurred as Sariel began to walk again and numbly, she realized that she was seeing through a veil of tears. When had she become so weak?

Kaeloriel stalked by her side, his eyes glinting like hard golden coins. From time to time he ranged ahead, but he returned to her every so often, tilting his head as he examined her almost anxiously. There was something different about his companion now, similar to the vulnerability of a certain animal in a herd that was injured, or sick, or old. He sensed the change and did not trust it.

Sariel searched on fruitlessly, driven by a barely contained panic. There was no finesse to her fumbling movements now and she stumbled and cut herself on sharp rocks as if she was a child lost in the woods. The scars on her back that she had acquired from the whipping in Lothlórien prevented her from moving freely, aching with a deep pain that she almost welcomed, for it spurred her on.

Lianderthral's hand had still been warm in hers when she had left. She tried to remember what he had taught her, to focus herself and her gifts in order to enter into that special moment when all her senses sharpened, almost to the point of discomfort. The world around her was transformed, the brilliant vitality of every aspect of sky, forest, and earth almost too much to take in. The wind sang in her ears, whispering of water and of the _silphieron_ that grew alongside streams and lakes.

She did not have much time left. Either empty handed or with the antidote, Sariel had to return soon. The poison was not fatal…on its own. In combination with the injuries Lianderthral had, though, it would be deadly. By her estimation, Lianderthral could not possibly fight for much longer without succumbing to the fatigue that the drug caused. It would slow his breathing and eventually stop his heart.

If nothing else, she would not let him die without her. Her hand clenched into a fist at her side and it was almost as if she could feel his fingers intertwined with hers.

* * *

"_But do you think the sacrifice was in vain?" he asked her._

"_Yes," she replied._

"_I think it is not."_

"_Why?"_

_He hesitated. "I do not think you are ready to hear it. Someday, ask me again, and I will tell you."_

Sariel knelt down by the stream, splashing a little bit of the icy water onto her face. Her breath already came out in puffs of white. She stared down at the water and it was no longer a dark, inky black. The sky was lightening; it was almost morning. She had found nothing.

"Tell me, Lianderthral," she whispered unsteadily to her distorted image in the running water. "Do you really believe your sacrifice for me was not in vain?"

She picked her way across the stream to the other bank and began to walk again in the direction she had come from, looking at the grey rocks. Her foot slid off a slippery water-coated rock and her leg plunged into the water. Her elbow throbbed where it had slammed against a rock. At least it was not her wrist, which was mostly healed but still fragile and susceptible to another injury. At least she had not twisted an ankle. At least… She tried to think of all that could have happened and did not, as she gritted her teeth and continued.

"Why did you do it? Tell me, Lianderthral."

It was even colder now and her lips barely moved as they shaped the words; she spoke to herself anyway, so what was the use of actually uttering the sounds?

"If you did it because you care for me…then you are a fool." She tried to laugh, but only managed to choke back a sob. The tears that had come before had come silently, but she was as near to a breakdown as she had ever been.

"You are a fool, and your sacrifice will have done nothing, saved no one. You will only have broken hearts. If you care for me, you will fight to live until I return," she told the silent forest around her, the rushing water oblivious to her anger and pain.

"If you care for me, you will tell me yourself when that someday comes and I ask you again." With every statement her voice grew softer, although she straightened her spine and renewed her determination.

"If you care for me, you will only be hurt, because I can care for no one."

Step by step, her bones aching with cold and fatigue, but the sky continued to lighten.

"If you care for me…" Her voice broke and Sariel stopped. She knelt down again, fingertips touching the green leaves of the plants around her, eyes automatically skimming over them and searching for the shape that she yearned to find.

She almost did not notice it, but it was there, all of a sudden. The dark green plant, half hidden by others, a small shrub with jagged edged leaves much like that of holly.

"_Silphierion_," she breathed and her fingers closed around the frail plant. Kaeloriel came up beside her and she flung her arms around his neck, burying her face into his soft, thick black fur. When she raised her head, she automatically looked up. Rosy streaks of color had been painted across the sky, the proof of dawn.

Sariel had to return, but not to Belderon. She had to return to Lianderthral, so that he might tell her why not all sacrifices were in vain.

She had finally found what she had been searching for, and only now did she realize that it was more than just an antidote for Lianderthral.

* * *

**A/N:** Please review! Yours gratefully, ElvenDestiny.

_Finalized June 2009_


	13. Change of Heart

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

**Chapter 13: Change of Heart**

****The soft, flickering glow from the small fire was a warm orange, but it still could not hide the unnatural pallor of Lianderthral's skin. Vanidar had watched over him initially, but now it was Legolas who sat to the patient's left. Since Gandalf had feared that Lianderthral's condition would grow worse if he slept, the companions had taken turns conversing with him, attempting to keep him awake. But their best efforts still could not stop the effects of the poison and Lianderthral was semi-conscious at best.

When Sariel had reported that the poison was not fatal, Gandalf had understood what she had meant, although the others had not picked up the nuances of her response. The poison was not directly fatal; it would not kill Lianderthral _yet_. Though it was not something normally potent enough to cause death, the Elf had been exposed to a highly concentrated form of the poison. His body was already weakened from blood loss, making him even more susceptible. Despite their natural abilities and gifts, even Elves were not invulnerable to poison.

Sariel had warned them of some of the likely symptoms, but it was still hard to witness Lianderthral's worsening condition. He had developed a high fever and was as often as not incoherent even when he seemed to be awake. Although they had tried giving him different medicines that were usually effective with poisons, nothing helped bring his temperature down, not even the willow bark brew. Whatever Belderon had used, it was not something that any of the companions were familiar with, save Sariel. With little else they could do, they waited for Sariel's return and used cool, damp towels to try to ease Lianderthral's discomfort.

While Lianderthral undoubtedly suffered the most, those around him were not having an easy time of it either. It was hard to listen to all the small, intimate details of Lianderthral's life, to listen to him relive various moments of his life as his fevered mind wandered. Legolas had not expected to hear about so many things that he was sure the Elf would otherwise never have told him. After all, Lianderthral was so personable and charismatic that it was not until now that they all realized exactly how reticent he was when it came to his personal life.

They had not traveled together for long, but even in that period, he had never brought up his past, although he had to be aware that those around him all knew how and why he had voluntarily entered into such a solitary existence. The only one who had heard it directly from him was Sariel, who had a past—one that was perhaps still the present—of her own to deal with. Was that why he seemed so close to Sariel, and she with him?

With these disquieting thoughts, Legolas feigned nonchalance whenever Lianderthral evoked Sariel's name, which was far more often than their brief acquaintance could have warranted, in his opinion. How had Lianderthral gained Sariel's trust so quickly? Was it because they shared the same powers and Lianderthral had been serving as her teacher and mentor? Or was it for other reasons as well?

Legolas remembered how the two Elves had slept huddled together through the snowstorm, the way their actions seemed to compliment each other's so naturally and effortlessly. The way the Elf looked at Sariel also carried a kind of charge, observable to anyone who was paying attention, and Legolas had been, even when he had not wished to. Once, that connection had been between Sariel and himself—and it still was, or was it?

He did not know what to think or feel anymore, and now he had too much time to ponder such things as he watched over Lianderthral, a role that he could not resent, and yet could not quite accept easily, either. Even now, the injured Elf called out hoarsely for Sariel, causing something in Legolas's stomach to tighten in some mixture of embarrassment, anger, and shame. Ironically, Lianderthral's condition left Legolas feeling helpless. Hoping that none of others had noticed his tension, he looked up as Arwen took a seat on Lianderthral's left side. She changed the damp towels to fresh ones without saying anything, but when she looked up again to meet Legolas's gaze, her grey eyes were worried.

"He looked lucid when I succeeded in waking him temporarily, but then I realized that he was fully unaware of his surroundings," he told her somberly. "He has begun to hallucinate, and I had to restrain him to keep him from hurting himself."

"You should go rest, Legolas. I will watch over him."

Legolas shook his head in denial. "I cannot rest while he lies here like this. Sariel will be return soon."

"Perhaps," Arwen replied. "We must hope so, at least."

"It is you who should save your strength. You have suffered just as great hurts as Lianderthral and I know you are weary in more ways than one." He held out his hand and she placed hers onto his palm.

"I will stay awhile longer," Arwen answered, voice as sweet as ever, but the faint tremor in her hand betrayed her feelings. Legolas's hand clasped hers, hard, for a moment, before he released her. After a moment, she straightened her spine and then bent over their patient again, the shadowy outline of her head and shoulders faintly visible against the moonlight. She tried to get Lianderthral to drink more from the steaming cup of dark liquid that she had prepared, and he drank the brew willingly enough, making no indication of the bitterness of the liquid.

Lianderthral's green eyes were open and followed the movement of Arwen's arm, but they both knew that his mind was far away. "Sariel," he murmured, and Legolas could not stop himself from stiffening at the name.

"Arwen, let me care for him," he said again, watching as Arwen's eyes filled with nameless sorrows that seemed to drown out the light that normally shone in the grey.

She looked at him and he was taken aback by her expression. "If Sariel cannot find the antidote, he will be in much pain. I would that I was by his side when that happens, so as to ease it if I had the power." It was an indirect response to his not quite order, reinforcing the impression that he got from the look she was giving him, one that he had never seen from her. The blatant distrust, along with everything else, made his temper flare.

He took a breath, but could not stop himself from confronting her about it. "Do you not trust that I will help him to the best of my ability?" The question was soft, but the intensity of his tone seemed to catch Arwen's attention. Her strange expression cleared, followed by brief confusion, and then a heartwrenchingly haunted look.

"Legolas—" she whispered.

"He is one of us," he shot back. "How could you think so little of me?"

"I do not!" Arwen cried. "Legolas, you _know_ how much you mean to me. But what Belderon does, how can any of us stand against it? He takes the darkest parts of us, the most shameful and the most ignoble, and uses it to overwhelm the good! What use does he have for weapons when he understands so well our very natures, the dark as well as the light? He tempts us to go too far while all along believing that we are doing the right thing, the justifiable thing. Is that not what he has done to Sariel?"

"It is not temptation when there is so little choice involved!" Legolas stood up, hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Would _you_ let Aragorn die for the sake of saving the lives of strangers?"

She was standing now as well, eyes blazing and glossy with tears. "Do you know what I have been asking myself, Legolas, each and every hour? Do you know what I have been contemplating from the moment I found out that Belderon found a way to revive him?" Tears spilled down her cheeks and one of her hands came up to wipe them away.

Legolas's anger faded as he realized how completely distraught she was. Arwen was shaking, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if she were holding herself together. He reached out to her but she backed away, a torrent of passionate words bursting from her even as he stepped around Lianderthral and held Arwen by the shoulders.

"I have to be ready to kill him," she explained wildly to him, sobs racking her body. Yet she spoke furiously, raising her fists and beating them against his chest when he would not let go of her. "I have to stop him before he harms anyone else! Do you see now? _I _have to let him die, to kill him, because it would have been what he wanted! Not to be someone else's puppet, used to lead an army and a war. So, _yes_! I would let Aragorn die for the sake of saving the lives of others, and in fact, I would do it myself!"

The rest was a mess of words and tears, but Legolas drew Arwen close and this time, she let him. She buried her face against his shoulder, clutching at his arms with her hands.

"Shhh," Legolas soothed her. "It will not come to that."

"You cannot know," she whispered. "How can you?"

He cradled her head to his chest. "I _know_, Arwen. Trust me." As he comforted her, she slowly quieted down, the storm of weeping decreasing and transmuting into something even more painful: despair. But he gazed over her head and vowed that if it was needed, he would be the one to strike the killing blow. He rocked her a little, a gentle sway, and watched as a transformation took place before his eyes.

Bit by bit, she regained her composure until the tear tracks on her cheeks and the slight redness of her eyes were the only evidence of the release of emotion he had just seen. Her voice was steady when she finally spoke, though she gathered herself together for it with visible effort.

"I am sorry, Legolas. I did not mean to insult you." She shifted restlessly in his arms and he let her go; they had established such signals to each other long ago. "Belderon exploits our weaknesses and that is how he gains control. You must understand why I fear for you."

"Arwen—"

She cut him off with a small shake of her head. "I was afraid and I still am. I think he sees more clearly into our hearts than perhaps we do ourselves. I do not want you to be hurt or to see others hurt, and Lianderthral… I see the way you look at him and the struggle inside you." She glanced down at the Elf that could have been his twin, and her gaze was weighty, considering. For a moment, Legolas saw her father in her.

"Lianderthral _is_ one of us, and yet he is also the one that Sariel has turned to for help and comfort, and I do not think you have forgotten that," she continued gently. "Can you tell me that you no longer feel any animosity towards him? That jealousy has never influenced you, even a little bit, and never will?"

Her questions stung even though she had not meant for them to and it was because they both knew she had only voiced the truth. Turning away from Arwen's serious mien, Legolas looked down at Lianderthral. It was still startling to him to see features so like his own on someone else. Save for the more delicate, sharper, feral quality of Lianderthral's features, they could have been identical. With Lianderthral's eyes closed, even the most distinguishing difference between them was concealed.

The most noticeable thing now, however, was that the aura of bright vitality that all Elves usually possessed was gone. The contrast was even greater on Lianderthral, who had always seemed slightly brighter than most, a little closer to nature than even others of his kind. Injured and weakened from the poison, he no longer seemed like an Elf capable of the kind of destruction Sariel had done in Lothlórien.

"He means a great deal to Sariel," Legolas said slowly, forcing the words out, however much he did not want to admit to their truth. "And she means a great deal to him."

"And she means a great deal to you," Arwen finished quietly. "I well understand that there are some things beyond our control. The things we feel do not always involve our choice."

When he did not reply, Arwen sighed. "You should not blame her either, for the same reason. The day that Sariel entered our lives, everything changed. No one is the same and we find ourselves facing another war, another threat. I let myself believe, naively, that when the Ring was unmade and Sauron defeated, it would be over. The last battle won. I thought that we had sacrificed enough."

"It never ends," he murmured. "There can never be a final victory."

"For Sariel, there never was. So I cannot look away, cannot close my eyes, and cannot pretend. For all the grief I have had to bear because of it, I cannot walk away."

"And do you think the sacrifice is worth it?" He had to know. It always came back to this question, whether they were together in the gardens of Lothlórien while he asked her whether she would give up her life for Aragorn, or here and now.

Rather than answering, Arwen knelt besides Lianderthral with her hands clasped together tightly. She looked down at Lianderthral, studying the Elf's sleeping features as Legolas himself had done earlier. "Old, the Men call us. Wise, they call us. But for all our knowledge, we are still naïve children, painting the world in black and white. Who is to say that grey does not exist? Can you say that one is purely evil, or purely good?"

"Yet we act as if the grey does not exist because it makes our lives easier and simpler," Legolas interjected. "Because we feel we have the power and the intelligence to judge things to be either black or white."

"Perhaps we do, Legolas, but perhaps it is that we do not have the heart." Arwen replaced Lianderthral's cool towels with freshly prepared ones, laying a hand lightly on his forehead and then his cheek to gauge the strength of the fever. "Look at Belderon, once admired and held in the highest honor. And where has he fallen now? What of Saruman, leader until his very power corrupted him? And even in the First War, there was Morgoth, the best and brightest of the Valar, beloved of Eru himself, before he fell to evil. Yet even so, we were taught the gifts he gave to his Elven brethren and know of the kindness that was in his heart as well, before it changed. So in the end, do their evil actions cancel that of the good they, too, brought to the world? And who is to judge?"

"In the end, they all had to be stopped," Legolas pointed out, his heart twisting at the thought. He thought of Sariel and then he thought of Arwen, and wished he could take back the words. He closed his eyes, seeing Aragorn as he had known him in all these years, a leader born, a king among men.

There was a long silence as they both contemplated his reply. The stillness was only broken by the crackle of the fire and Lianderthral's hoarse voice calling out for Sariel again. Arwen stirred from her position by Lianderthral's side.

"In the end," she asked, "what of the reverse, those struggling to grace? What of those who have known only evil but seek good, as a stunted tree grows toward light? What is fitting for them?"

* * *

Three hours later, Lianderthral seemed to recover a little, at least enough to speak again with some amount of sense. He looked up at Legolas with half-open eyes, his irises glittering a dark green, the color of a good emerald. His forehead was still burning to touch, but he appeared to be more stable than before.

"Is Sariel—?" he asked, but saw the answer in Legolas's face before he had even finished the question. "No, I did not think so. I had hoped that she was safe."

"None of us are safe," Legolas replied shortly. Slightly ashamed at how he had all but snapped at someone in such dire condition, he elaborated. "It may be that she is safer out there searching than we are here."

"At least here we can help protect her," Lianderthral insisted.

Legolas tried not to grit his teeth. It was good that his patient was no longer hallucinating, but he did not want to talk about this subject, especially with Lianderthral. His unnerving conversation with Arwen had already provided him with much to think about. "If she were here, she would say that she does not need or want our help."

"Yet both you and I know that she _does_ need it."

"At this moment, you need her help more than she needs yours," Legolas pointed out, and then sighed when he realized he was arguing with someone who was poisoned, wounded, and running a high fever.

"I am the only one who understands her, and she, the only one for me." Lianderthral's eyes closed and Legolas hoped that it was the end of the conversation, but his patient continued speaking. "Yet we are too close."

Despite himself, Legolas was prompted to ask what he meant. "Why do you say so?"

"What do you think she will feel if I were to die?" Lianderthral whispered hoarsely. Legolas helped him rise a little and held a cup of water to his lips as he thought. He knew Lianderthral was not only thinking of the obvious, that Sariel would be devastated by his death.

"She would blame herself," he realized. "She would feel that she caused your death.

Lianderthral nodded weakly. "And Sariel would believe that what she tried to do was not worth the sacrifice she paid for it."

Legolas opened his mouth in instinctive protest, but the other Elf continued. "You must look after her, Legolas. Protect her not only from Belderon, but from herself. Tell me that you will."

He could not stand to look at those green eyes, glazed with illness and yet penetrating, as if reading his soul. "There is no need," he said sharply. "She will return to us."

Lianderthral closed his eyes again and did not speak for a long time. Legolas waited, but when he woke again, all cognizance had fled from his eyes. As if struggling to hold on, Lianderthral tried to say something, but Legolas could not make out the words even when he leaned over him to hear. About to sit back, Legolas was stopped by the other Elf's hand, which weakly grasped his. The wild look on Lianderthral's face faded momentarily.

"I have faith as well," he murmured. "She will return to me."

Their conversation seemed to have sapped the last of his strength, and his eyes closed again, not to open for the rest of the night.

Even as dawn approached, Legolas sat by his side, replaying that brief but disturbing exchange in his mind. He was all too aware of the subtle difference in what he had said, and what Lianderthral had said. Had it been a careless change due to the fever? Or had Lianderthral said it deliberately, to remind Legolas that Sariel was returning not to Legolas, but to him?

* * *

The sun had fully risen by the time Sariel and Kaeloriel returned to where they had left the companions. They had traveled as fast as they could, but Sariel's long, nearly fruitless search had taken them farther away than she had realized. Weary to the bone and worried that she had returned too late, Sariel at first believed that she had somehow come back to the wrong area. The woods appeared to be completely deserted.

"Where did they go?" Sariel asked herself as Kaeloriel prowled around. She quickly checked for the signs that she had memorized. There could be no doubt that this was where she left them. The snow also looked as if it had been disturbed at some point, although someone must have tried to cover up their temporary stay. Walking around, she found the remains of the fire they had made, although it had been cleverly hidden.

More troubling were the dark stains on the snow. Orc blood. The entire secret campsite stank of orcs and blood, yet there were no bodies in sight and no signs of battle. Did that mean that the companions had been taken unaware? Sariel could not believe that none of her friends had been able to kill even a single orc. It was more likely that the orcs had come after the group had left, and then some kind of fight had broken out, leaving some orcs injured and bleeding.

Kaeloriel came back to her side, clearly wanting to show her something he had found. Following the black wolf, Sariel came to an oak tree a little ways off from the campsite, far enough that the orcs had probably not thought to search the area. Only Kaeloriel's keen nose could have led them out here, and someone must have had this thought in mind, for buried at the roots of the tree, beneath a light covering of snow, was a long arrow with perfect fletching.

She did not need to examine it too closely to recognize the arrow, though she knew that there was a very faint _L_ lightly carved into the wood. Light, she knew, because Legolas was careful to preserve the strength of the wood, especially when marking the arrows he liked to use for competition.

The arrow had been left as a message that only she was likely to be able to interpret. Picking it up, Sariel could not help but feel discouraged. Lianderthral had been poisoned for so long and she had wasted so much time trying to find the _silphieron_ plant. Because of this, she and Kaeloriel would lose even more time before she could get the antidote to Lianderthral, and she knew that the Elf did not have much time left to lose. But there was no use succumbing to her doubts now.

Together, the black wolf and the Elf set off at a run in the direction the arrow had been pointing.

* * *

The mortal man who had once been a king knelt before his new master, gazing up with a look of submission that did not fit the noble, handsome lines of his face. Standing above him was an Elf with dark golden hair arranged in the traditional fashion of his kind: the top half was tied back with two slender, long braids, and the rest was left loose to fall in rippling waves down his back.

A fleeting thought came to the man who called himself Aradrywn, a remembrance of another Elf, but a female, someone of extraordinary beauty and grace. He frowned and tried to hold onto the thought, briefly envisioning long black hair, soft and sleek. But like a butterfly that flutters from flower to flower, the thought fled his mind, the vague impression of blue eyes fading to the immediate reality before him.

His master was not pleased. A frown marred the face and the nearly colorless eyes were hard and cold. "Your orcs did not find them," he said to the man. "They arrived too late."

"I am sorry, Master," the man said quickly, bowing even more in his kneeling position, until his face was level with the master's knees.

"I want you to take twenty five of the best with you. You will bring them _all_ to me, alive and unharmed."

"Yes, Master. I will take them prisoner."

The master did not like his answer. The master was ordinarily quite expressionless, but the man saw a hint of a sneer now and nearly panicked. What was wrong with his reply?

"I expect them here by tonight, especially the two women in the group. Do you understand?"

The man bowed his head. "You will have them, Master."

"You will deliver them to me by tonight! Orcs!" The last was a command to attention, but the man had a startling recollection at the sound of the word. His head jerked up.

"_Yrch!_" he repeated after his master, with a remembered disgust, the Elvish word rolling off his tongue with familiar loathing. His master's attention returned immediately to him at that, and before he knew what was happening, he felt the sting on his cheek from a slap across the face.

"What did you say?"

"Forgive me, Master," the man begged, "forgive me." But when he dared to raise his eyes, he was horrified to see that his master was glaring at him with hatred, and something like fear.

"You shall not say that word again!" Belderon thundered.

"Yes, Master," he replied automatically, shaken by his own disobedience. Lately, the indistinct visions had been plaguing him more often, until they played tricks on him, making him think that they were his thoughts and his memories. But he knew that they were not. He had grown up with Belderon and Belderon's other commander, Sariel, who was trying to betray their master now. The master had explained everything so clearly. His disturbing dreams of the terrible figure clothed in grey, and then clothed in white…they were distractions, meant to lead him astray.

He would not disobey his master.

Belderon gazed at the remnants of a once proud man and could not stop his lip from curling. It was pathetic. He had never imagined that he would see this man brought so low. It was almost a pity that he had become involved with these affairs; otherwise he would still be king of his kingdom and obvious to his current troubles. But Belderon reminded himself that the man before him deserved no such pity. He was of the same ilk as Thranduil and Elrond, and a friend of the Elves that had condemned Faledin to death, even betrothed to the daughter of Elrond, the Evenstar.

Belderon had been pleased at first to gain such a powerful weapon, and yet it now seemed as if his once mindless puppet had begun to remember. The complication would have to be dealt with. _No matter_, he thought. _I shall have all of them under my control soon. Then there is time enough to decide how to deal with this…thing before me._

He considered the man before him. "I want all of them. You will bring all eight before me, or suffer my wrath. Let the orcs know that they will be executed and fed to the others if they fail."

"Yes, Master."

_Sickening, really, what he has become_, he thought. To make his point, Belderon kicked at the man, who let out a muffled sound of pain. But the man still knelt and accepted the blow, and when he looked up at his master again, it was with the same blank, nearly adoring expression.

_Sickening, indeed._

* * *

Legolas stirred the pot and welcomed the warmth the fire provided, although it was again very small so that it would not alert others to their presence. His companions were setting up shelter once again, finding places to keep the horses. Gimli had set off to hunt for small game, while Vanidar and Boromir gathered extra firewood. Everyone was grimy and still tense from the hurried move to this new place. They took turns cleaning up as best as they could with the limited supplies.

The water was finally brought to a boil and he added a package of meal. The result would be a warm but flavorless porridge, not the most lovely of things to eat, but certainly welcome nevertheless to their empty stomachs and cold bodies. He could see the puffs of white from their breathing, and though it was daytime, the sky was overcast and grey.

Lianderthral had continued to be under his charge, as if he had adopted the patient for his own personal responsibility. The sudden journey and the hurried moving had weakened his patient, and Legolas was worried that he had fallen into a dangerous kind of unconscious sleep. Perhaps the poison in his blood had circulated faster with the movements, or the frantic ride had exacerbated his injury.

There was another matter. Legolas had pulled Lianderthral down from the saddle—the Elf had been awake then—only to discover that he had been coughing up blood. Aside from Arwen and Vanidar, the others did not know, but it was an added worry. Though not a healer, Legolas had been trained in basic healing like the others, and all the Elves knew that Lianderthral was much worse than he let on.

It had all happened rapidly. Vanidar had been the first one to raise the alarm, right after the break of dawn. He had been the sentry at the time and had come back to camp, signaling with hand motions to Legolas to warn him to be silent. Legolas had quickly doused the fire with snow, moving quietly to wake the others one by one. They were soon all aware of it: a faint, rhythmic beat, much like marching. The orcs were simply too bulky to travel with stealth, especially when they were in a band.

Gandalf pointed to the horses and Boromir and Arwen went to untie their halters, the Elf soothing them with soft, murmured words of Elvish. Vanidar had meanwhile left and came back again, his gestures confirming that the orcs were headed this way and would not pass them by. They were ready to leave in a short amount of time, each of them helping conceal their presence and trail away from the area as best they could.

As the others got everything ready, Legolas ran lightly over the snow and sought out an oak tree. After a moment of reflecting, he drew an arrow out of his quiver and buried under the snow in the direction that they were heading. When he returned to the others, Vanidar was gesturing for them to mount.

"There are two many of them for us to fight. We ride." His voice was hardly audible, but his smile flashed white and somehow menacing in the dark. "If they had not brought so many, we might not have noticed until it was too late."

"Lianderthral will ride with me," Legolas said as they mounted, and he helped the Elf into the saddle, tying him in place. They split up into groups of twos and threes, each riding off in a different directly after they had consulted on approximately where to meet. With any luck, they would be able to lose their pursuers, or at least split the orc band into manageable numbers for combat.

They had ridden hard into the night, scattering like so many wraiths into the white, chill fog of wintertime. So they had come to the new place, only to continue waiting for Sariel's return.

* * *

She followed the dark, swiftly moving shape of the wolf before her, envying his seemingly tirelessness. With a surety that she could only appreciate, the wolf led her for miles, the journey undoubtedly easier for her mounted companions than for Sariel, on foot and wearied.

There was a small light ahead that she thought could be firelight. She drew even with the wolf, about to caution him against bold moves, but Kaeloriel plunged forward before she could stop him. Left with no choice, Sariel rushed after him, a surge of renewed energy running through her body as she drew her Elven daggers. The first thing she saw was the horses, however, her own beloved filly among them. Before she had gone much farther, Gandalf appeared on her right.

"Sariel," he greeted her briefly.

She searched his expression frantically, but Gandalf gave nothing away. "How is he?"

Her heart sank when he did not answer her. "Do you have it?"

She was already striding past him. "I would not have returned without it."

Lianderthral was lying so still by the fire that for a moment, she truly believed that she had come too late. She knelt beside him, reaching out to touch his face. His forehead was sheened with sweat and he breathed so shallowly that his chest barely moved. His lips were red in contrast to his pallor and there was a smear of brown on his cheek. Legolas stared at her and said something and then Arwen was there too, also talking to her, but Sariel heard none of it.

"Lianderthral," her lips shaped, but no sound came out. She opened the pouch at her side and took out the slender, yellow-green plant. Vanidar was speaking too, his mouth moving, although it was all soundless to her. He was holding a tiny pot out to her and she took it, dumping out half of the warmed water and dropping the _silphieron _in. She watched him take it from her then and set it on the fire.

She bent over Lianderthral again, taking one of his unresponsive hands in both of hers and cradling it. Someone touched her shoulder and she flinched, turning to see that it was only Arwen. The Elf spoke and the words finally penetrated into the haze of anguish in her mind. "He has been fighting for you."

It was all she could do not to weep. "Too late." It was all too late.

Arwen shook her head. "No, Sariel. You found it. You will save him."

But she was past the point of listening.

"Leave us," she said to them all, suddenly unable to bear all the eyes on her, all the pity they had for she and Lianderthral both. He had been her companion, her friend, not theirs. He had accepted her when they had all meant to imprison her, had taught her more about herself than she ever knew was there. "Leave us alone!"

Before her, Lianderthral's body convulsed and her hands tightened on his. She watched his chest rise with his breath and then he was coughing violently and she hung onto his hand as both of his shoulders lifted from the ground.

On his other side, Legolas slipped his arm under Lianderthral's shoulders with the ease of practice and turned him a little, away from her. She leaned forward, but Legolas was holding a cloth to Lianderthral's face, and it was not until the fit of coughing had stopped momentarily that she saw the cloth was stained dark. Before her mind could puzzle it out, Lianderthral was coughing more, convulsing in Legolas's grasp, and liquid dripped from the cloth because there was too much.

It was a bright, bright red on the snow. The bright red of fresh blood, turning pinkish-red when its warmth melted the snow.

She was frozen, and yet her heart felt as if it would burst.

Legolas was lowering Lianderthral down to now, one arm supporting and the other hand still clutching the bloody cloth. His eyes met Sariel's over Lianderthral; emotions chased through them, too quickly for her to recognize. She stared at him and then her gaze followed his arm down to his hand, to the blood still dripping onto the snow.

Then Vanidar was crouching down beside her and holding the pot of golden liquid. She looked at the shade and nodded faintly. He cooled it in the snow and her eyes went automatically to the red again, vivid against the white snow.

Legolas made a quick, sharp motion with his hand and covered it with more snow. It broke her stare and she turned to take the cup from Vanidar even as Legolas helped Lianderthral to sit halfway up. The Elf was still unconscious; he had not even opened his eyes during his coughing fit.

She had steady hands. Now they would not obey her and she was afraid to hold the cup to Lianderthral's red lips, afraid to spill the precious antidote.

"Let me," said Legolas, and took the cup from her. She sat so that Lianderthral's back rested sideways on her thighs and from that position, she could help Legolas force him to drink. Bit by bit, they poured the liquid down his throat.

When they were nearly done, he started coughing and threw up more blood and likely a good portion of the antidote.

They started over again.

She had lost all sense of time, but it was the fourth cup before Lianderthral fully kept the brew down. Legolas helped hold him while Sariel shifted over until Lianderthral's head was pillowed on her lap, and then she could not stop the tears from falling and turned her face away so that they would not fall onto Lianderthral. She covered her face with both hands and shook with soundless sobs.

Then she felt arms wrap around her from behind, pulling her so her back rested against a solid, warm chest, and she cried even harder.

* * *

She woke abruptly at the sound of her name being called and it took her a few moments to orient herself. It was still light out, but late afternoon, judging by the amount of sunlight sifting through the forest. She was leaning back against someone, sitting against their crossed legs, and their arms were still wrapped around her just below her breasts.

"Sariel," she heard again, little more than a hoarse rasp. The pressure on her legs eased a little, bringing with it a painful rush of renewed feeling as the blood flowed back through her legs.

She barely even noticed the pain. All her attention was focused on Lianderthral as he looked at her through half-lidded green eyes. She let out a small gasp, sitting up straight and pulling away from the arms that held her as she leaned forward.

"Lianderthral," she breathed, one hand reaching out to cup his face. He was cool to the touch; his fever had broken at last. Legolas had risen to his feet and now stepped around them both to kneel on Lianderthral's left, across from her. He offered the Elf water, which was gladly accepted. Legolas brought the cup to his lips, but Lianderthral's left hand came up to grasp the cup himself.

Fresh tears filled Sariel eyes and spilled down her cheeks as she realized that Lianderthral was truly recovering. She was still holding his right hand and it squeezed hers when he turned toward her and saw that she was crying. The relief from feeling that slight pressure, when there had been none at all for so long, only overwhelmed her more. Her eyes were already hurting from her storm of weeping the night before but she could not help it; it was as if she had an unexpected reservoir of tears within her.

"Don't cry," he pleaded.

"The nightingale's sacrifice," she said through her tears. "Why was it not in vain?"

She could see him considering whether to give her an answer or not. After a moment, he gave a small shake of his head, looking away from her entreating gaze. "Someday, Sariel, ask me again."

"When I am ready to hear it."

He smiled faintly. "Yes."

It was her turn to look away, but she turned to see Legolas looking at them both, and she could not meet his gaze, either. There were too many feelings, too much. She felt as brittle as glass, and as fragile. She could not believe that she had fallen asleep. She had betrayed him already, had gotten him hurt and then had nearly not returned with the antidote. How could she she let him down even more when he was so ill?

Lianderthral was still looking at her when she turned back. There was an expression in his eyes that both warmed her and made her afraid.

"You should curse the day you met me," she whispered. "You nearly lost your life."

"I knew you would come," he said.

* * *

It was sundown before Sariel was willing to leave Lianderthral's side and that was only because she could see that he was indeed recovering. Those few hours of peace had calmed her, but as she watched over a resting Lianderthral, she remembered other things. Terrible things. She had blocked them out of her mind in her desperate quest for the antidote, but they came rushing back to her own, an endless stream of vile words, vile _truths_ that she could not escape.

_You will have a new addition to your family soon… To think how this will pain the Evenstar … her betrothed has committed such acts of violation._

Nothing was worth this kind of sacrifice. Not her freedom, not even her sister's. Not when it came at these prices. She had gambled against Belderon and lost, but in taking the risk, she had risked everything for everyone else, as well.

For Arwen, who had lost Aragorn, first to death, and then to even greater horrors. _Do you think the Evenstar's light will fade?_

For the people of Gondor, who had lost their king, and with their king, their queen as well, and the heirs who would have rebuilt the kingdom to surpass its former glory.

For Aragorn, who had lost his life and then his soul. Turned into nothing more than a mindless beast, to be used as Belderon willed, with even less freedom than an orc.

For her sister, turned into a living example of history, the recreation of Rhiannon, the sister Legolas had lost. Lessena, innocent all her life, now carrying a child as innocent as she.

For Lianderthral, who had almost died, and why? He had nearly died because of her gamble, her desire to challenge Belderon. He had nearly lost his life because of her unwillingness to take a life.

"No more," she whispered. "No more."

But some things were too late to change. Some wounds had already been dealt, even when the wounded was not aware of it. _Do you think she will be able to bear it, to know that _you_ have caused this? _

Belderon's words trapped her more securely than any cage he could ever put her in, the chains of words circling not her wrists and ankles, but her heart and mind.

_You do want Lessena to live, don't you, Sariel?_

"Yes," she said to herself helplessly, as she caught a glimpse of hair as dark as her own. There was something almost sweet in surrender, when she had fought so hard and so long. Her mother had died in vain. All her sacrifices were in vain.

There was one person she had to tell, so when she left Lianderthral she went to seek out Arwen. The daughter of Elrond had taken one look at her and had led them away from the others so that they could speak in private. Reading Arwen's expression, Sariel knew that the other Elf expected to be told something terrible, something that had happened to Sariel. But it was neither Sariel who had been hurt, nor was it she who would be suffer from the following conversation. Was this truly to be one more cruel link between them, near cousins as they had named each other?

When it was done, Sariel quietly left. She knew that Arwen would not stop her and thought that perhaps she had not even noticed her absence. She could hardly bear to speak of it, so how could Arwen bear to hear it? She had expected anger, but all there had been was hurt and pain. Such pain. Grey eyes like bottomless pools of pain, with permanent shadows on the water.

Arwen had not even blamed her.

_You see, little nightingale, you could spare all of them so much pain if you came to me now, _Belderon told her. She could not tell if he truly spoke to her, or if she made up the words herself in her own mind. He would tell her these things, she knew, so the difference did not matter. She knew him well enough to know what he said, whether he said it or not.

_A simple change of heart_, he said. _Or will you continue your sacrifices, and others' as well?_

"No more," she murmured. She had finally run out of tears, and what use had they been?

It was around midnight when she left. She looked at the moon and the stars, so far away, their light cold and distant, comfortless tonight. The campsite was close enough for her to walk back and look, to commit to memory every detail, everything she was protecting and everything she wanted to save. There was no harm in looking one last time, was there? But if she looked, she did not know whether she would have the courage to leave. There would be no farewells this time.

She walked away from it all, silently disappearing into the trees.

* * *

**A/N**: Please take a few moments to **review**. I put a lot of time into this, so I would love to hear what you liked and what you didn't. Feedback encourages me to keep writing and improving. Before you read the next chapter, why not spend a little extra time to leave some thoughts or comments? Questions are welcome too, but just give me a way for me to reply. Thanks!

_Final version, August 2009_


	14. The Nightingale's Hour

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

Author's Note 1-28-04: When I first started this story, I didn't plan for its themes to become so dark or serious. I was thirteen years old and thought it was ridiculous that I was writing a story rated R, since technically I wouldn't have been able to read my own story, let alone write it. However, a word of warning: from here on, the story can be considered 'adult,' whatever that means to you. I changed the rating from PG-13 to R when I first posted this, just to be safe.

******Chapter 14: The Nightingale's Hour**

****When Sariel left behind the rest of the companions, a dark shadow followed her. The only one to have noticed her absence, Kaeloriel had been hesitant at first to trail after her without bringing her departure to the others' attention. If it became necessary, however, he could quickly find his way back to the campsite, and something was wrong.

He was skilled at concealing his movements, but it seemed that Sariel would not have noticed his presence even if he had appeared beside her. Whatever internal turmoil she was experiencing was dangerous, for it distracted her. Although the sounds she made were not very loud, she usually moved in complete silence. Now, even if Kaeloriel had not had the benefit of a wolf's superior senses, he could still have followed her by sound alone.

No longer could she always skim the top of the snow, moving swiftly and leaving little trace of her passage behind. In some places, the snow was already melting. Sariel had begun her journey to Lothlórien in the last few weeks of summer, and although she had not dwelt in Lórien long, time had a way of flowing differently there. The month or so she felt she had spent there had become two or three when she had left. Her encounter with Lianderthral and their travel back to Nenuial had taken another month, during which winter had set in.

It should have still been the dead of winter and yet the air was warm enough to hint at the possibility of an early spring. The few dormant trees, hardy enough to survive this close to Belderon's fortress, showed tiny signs of life. Green buds had begun forming on the bare branches, so small that they were easy to miss. Although spring was undoubtedly still a way off, winter had let up its icy grip on the land. Greenery had sprung up around the forest in small patches, as if magically appearing overnight. Even now, at night, the air was faintly warmer and softer, without the cold bite of frost.

* * *

Legolas roused himself, realizing almost instantly that he had overslept—something that almost never happened. Sariel should have woken him hours ago; it was past midnight and he was to have taken second watch. Watching over Lianderthral had tired him more than he could have thought possible. His quick assessment of the campsite now alarmed him. Sariel was nowhere to be seen, although that by itself meant nothing, as she could have been patrolling. However, Kaeloriel was gone from Lianderthral's side and Legolas did not believe that the wolf would have parted with the Elf without good reason.

Without waking the others yet, he first checked the camp and then the surrounding areas. There was an odd feeling at the bottom of his stomach and he trusted what his instincts were telling him: something was wrong. Neither Sariel nor the wolf was anywhere to be found. He had not seen anything indicative of a struggle, yet at the same time, he could too easily imagine a variety of ways that they might have been coerced away from the camp.

Returning to the others, he had no choice but to wake Gandalf, explaining tersely that the two were missing. Word soon spread among the companions and everyone joined the search, dividing the surrounding area to cover ground more quickly. Gandalf and Arwen checked the entire west side, Vanidar the northeast, and Boromir and Gimli the southeast. Legolas was left to pace around the campfire, remaining behind to watch over the still weak Lianderthral. Angry to be doing nothing, Legolas hardly spoke to the other Elf, except to inform him of what was going on. Lianderthral himself was upset that he was incapacitated, so the silence, though tense, suited them both.

After about half an hour, the companions began to return but their reports were all the same. They had found nothing. It had begun to snow again and the new blanket of white eliminated any clue they might have found as to the whereabouts of Sariel and Kaeloriel. Had they been lured away? Had they left voluntarily? Why had Sariel not left word with someone, if that was the case?

"She must have left of her own will," Vanidar concluded when Boromir and Gimli had completed their report, staring into the dark woods as if expecting Sariel to reappear from the force of his gaze alone.

"Impossible, she would not try to take on Belderon alone. She knows she will not succeed and her sister's life will be lost," Boromir argued. "She already failed when she attempted it with others, so why would she try again by herself?"

Gimli looked from face to face, one hand running along the wood shaft of his axe, clearly wishing for something tangible to attack. "It must be some trickery. Some illusion dangled before the lass, to lure her away. Aye, she would go if she thought one of us was in danger."

Boromir nodded in agreement. "Perhaps the wolf tried to stop her and was captured as well."

Gandalf had been silent throughout the exchange, but he now shook his head. "We do not know what happened and guesses will lead us nowhere, so let us start with what we can know. Who was the last to see her?"

Most of the companions looked at Legolas as if expecting him to answer, but Gandalf was watching Arwen and saw that she dropped her gaze to the ground. Legolas followed the wizard's gaze to the Elf.

"Arwen?" he asked in surprise. "Did you speak to her after she left me and Lianderthral?"

Grief had transformed her face, giving her the appearance of age that the mere passing of years could not. "She told me…"

Without realizing it, Legolas stepped toward his friend, fear in every line of his body. "What is it?"

Arwen's eyes met his, pained and shocked, brimming with tears that spilled down her cheeks. "I did not think that she would leave," she whispered in anguish. "It is too late to change anything. Too late for Lessena, too late for all of us."

"Arwen, what did she tell you?" Legolas grabbed her shoulders even as Gandalf's hand shot out to close around his wrist in a restraining move, preventing him from shaking her. "Tell me!"

As she stared at him, the painful words tumbled out of her, the truth behind what had happened to Lessena and Belderon's sick recreation of the past. She explained to them all what the man who had once been her beloved had done, letting them absorb the full horror of it. There were few things more abhorrent to the Elves; the violation of the body was one of the spirit as well. Legolas's hands fell away from her shoulders and he turned his face away, unable to bear Arwen's gaze.

"I never meant to conceal it," she told them. She buried her face in her hands, overcome, when she was done. The silence was profound, broken only by the soft sound of her tears. "I did not think… The way she looked at me, and I just did not _think_… She must have left soon after."

"But where could she have gone?" Boromir asked bleakly. The Man's face was pale, but he was still handling it better than the Elves. He had seen these things happen before, both in war and in peace. It was a shock to him, but he had not grasped the depth of the differences between Elves and Men quite yet. "She cannot rescue her sister now. Arwen is right, she is too late."

"She went to Belderon," Lianderthral said with certainty from where he sat on the ground and all eyes turned to him.

"She cannot hope to defeat Belderon," said Gandalf. "Why would she go to him?"

Lianderthral looked sick at the question and watching him, the answer came to Legolas too, with horrifying clarity. "Because she does not want to win. She has gone to surrender."

* * *

She walked for a long time toward the dark mountain although in truth, it could not have taken as long as she thought it did. Lake Evendim, what the Elves had named Nenuial, formed one side of the stronghold. She was achingly familiar with the area, having spent centuries here. Yet now, walking towards it again in an unwanted homecoming, every detail seemed to be new to her again.

Whatever feelings she might have had were locked so deeply inside her that all she really had was a deep calm. She knew that she was going to do exactly what needed to be done. It was a bargain that Belderon was not likely to resist and once she had his word, it would all be over. Despite everything else he had done, Belderon had never broken his word.

She relied on this now to give her strength. It would be a simple trade. It was time to end this madness—past time, really. At some point, she had been pushed beyond her limit, had realized that whatever she might have planned or could have done was simply not worth it. There was nothing left for her to fear, so she was fearless. She no longer cared about what would happen to her. All she knew was that there was one purpose left, one thing she could do. With a single-minded determination, this was now what she worked toward. She only wanted to ensure the welfare of her companions, those fools who had followed her into hell.

There were no guards to welcome her, but even that did not worry her. It was better if Belderon were expecting her. She wanted to talk to him and complete their bargain, which would be easier if she had some semblance of equality. If the guards had taken her, she would have been nothing more than a prisoner. It did not matter so much either way. She was about to give Belderon nearly everything he wanted, as long as he agreed to give up just one part of his plan. Was there any need for the son of Thranduil to be involved when Lessena had already assumed the role of Rhiannon?

She went directly to Belderon's rooms, a place that had usually been forbidden to her. The last time had been when Belderon had summoned her for the blood oath that had bound them together. The rooms were exactly as she remembered, all of them joined to one another in a warren-like manner. She opened the first door to his chambers without any difficulty, unsurprised to find it unlocked. None would be so foolish as to even try to enter without Belderon's permission. Fear of him was more powerful than any lock.

The first thing that she saw when she walked into the room was her sister, sitting in a chair by the fireplace and bound in chains as always. She initially looked no worse than she had last time.

"Lessena," Sariel called. Her sister's back was toward her, but when Sariel spoke her name she did not move. She was still wearing a white dress; it was impossible to tell whether it was the same one or another. The cloth was finely made and shimmered softly golden in the firelight, which turned her blond hair into a darker honey color.

Somewhat alarmed by the lack of response, Sariel strode to her sister's side, nearly expecting the worst. Lessena's eyes were closed, but she was relieved to see that her chest rose and fell slightly to indicate breathing.

"Wake up, Lessena. I need to speak to you." Sariel reached down to shake her sister awake. When there was still no response, she realized what had happened. Belderon had drugged Lessena, the easiest way to make any rescue attempts so much harder.

With a curious lack of feeling, Sariel stopped for a moment to think, the same sort of ruthless practicality that she experienced while on an assignment taking over. If there was a problem, then she could find a methodical solution. She did not care or worry about the steps in between, as long as the ultimate objective was reached. It was what made her so terribly effective.

The problem now was whether Lessena was part of the bargain or not. Belderon had little incentive to kill her now that he had manipulated her into his twisted end game. However, he also had little incentive to keep her alive. It was doubtful that Lessena could successfully bear the child, and Belderon was not one for unnecessary complications.

Before Sariel had time to decide, however, a slight sound from behind her caught her attention. It had been deliberate, meant to alert her to his presence. The hourglass vial around her neck seemed to burn both hot and cold.

_Valar save us all_, she thought silently. She knew exactly who it was.

* * *

One of his hands fisted in Arod's mane as Legolas looked his horse in the eye, struggling to control his temper. He had moved away from all of them, unable to bear another moment of listening to their arguments, all the while knowing that Sariel had walked right into danger. Where was she now? Had she been harmed? Was she even still alive?

Arod's enormous brown eye looked back at him curiously and Legolas tried to turn his thoughts toward a different direction. Torturing himself with thoughts of what could or could not be happening was of no use to Sariel. He stroked Arod's neck and then took up his bow and quiver, the weight comforting against his back.

His family had nurtured Belderon's hatred, whether they had meant to or not. Thoughts spinning, Legolas remembered his sister's laugh with sudden clarity. The sound had been as unique as her voice, renowned throughout their woodland realm. She had been the one to teach him to ride, the one to teach him to sing. What had happened to her had almost been incomprehensible to him. From the moment he had heard of her death to the news that Belderon had escape the prison, Legolas had tried to understand, yet had never truly understood. He had been in the Great Hall with his father when her body had been found and brought in, and yet the full horror of it had always somehow escaped him.

He had lacked any sort of frame of reference. The crimes had been too horrible, too unspeakable; he could not have comprehended them any more than he could have comprehended an Elf eating the flesh of another Elf as the orcs did. These things did not even cross the mind, no matter how dark the thought. Perhaps it was because Belderon had comprehended it that he became as he was now. Faced with the knowledge of what his son had done, face with a choice between his king and his kin, he had gone mad.

Legolas stared at the horses and saddlebags without actually seeing them, overwhelmed with realizations. Sariel had been fighting for centuries, but it should not even have been her fight. His father had started this and it would be up to someone from the House of Oropher to end this. In some ways, Sariel had not involved him in this. He had involved her and her whole family. _He_ needed to kill Belderon, not only because Belderon needed to be stopped, or for what he had done to Sariel and her family, to Aragorn, and to Arwen. He needed to do it, because that was the difference between past and present.

If Belderon was so intent on recreating the past, there was one variable that he could not control. Legolas had not been there to protect his sister and had never felt the full impact of what had happened to her. But now, because of Sariel, because of Lorianiel, Lessena, Arwen, and all the others that had suffered because of Belderon, Legolas understood, and unlike the past, he was here to fight.

Legolas checked his pair of daggers and adjusted the fit of the leather vambraces around his forearms out of habit. He snapped out of the daze he had fallen into when someone called his name, but one other thing had caught his attention. There was a battered black and silver scabbard attached to Myste's saddle. Myste whickered nervously at his swift movements, but he did not need to go to the filly's side to already know what it was.

She had left it behind—her father's precious sword. Sariel had walked off without taking even that. He opened her other saddlebags, rummaging through them to check for the other weapons that should not have been stashed there. Mentally, he checked each off the list of weapons that he knew she had. They were all present, down to the wooden box of assassin's tools—garrotes, poisons, and all manner of things—that even now made his skin crawl when he touched it. Everything was there, neatly organized.

Unless she had some secret weapon he knew nothing about, Sariel had walked off completely unarmed. She had gone to meet Belderon without even her daggers or stilettos, the most basic protection. She had walked straight through a forest full of Belderon's orcs that were trying their best to find and kill them.

Without even thinking about it, Legolas grabbed her sword and attached it to his own saddle beside his own just as Vanidar came, evidently the one who had called for him earlier.

"Legolas, what are you doing?"

He freed Arod from the tethers and swung up, mounting before Vanidar could move to stop him.

"Sariel needs our help now, not whenever you are done with discussion," he said with more calm than he felt, controlling every word. His tone was rough, but who could blame him?

There were things that went unspoken and yet were known by all. Vanidar saw as much when he met Legolas's gaze. The hard glitter in the other Elf's eyes told him enough. Here was a warrior driven to desperation.

"Then go," Vanidar said in a low voice, "and we will follow."

Legolas turned Arod away with a quick command and Vanidar let him go even as the others came, not having heard the last words that had been exchanged.

"That fool! He endangers her with his haste!" Even as he spoke, Gandalf freed his own horse and mounted, the others following suit. "He has made our choice for us," he said grimly, speaking of Legolas and yet giving Vanidar a hard look.

Lianderthral had followed the rest despite what he had been through so recently. Before he could urge Síla Lúmenn on, a black blur darted in front of the horses, panicking them. Síla Lúmenn reared and Lianderthral struggled for control for a moment, the others drawing their weapons as soon as the threat appeared. They were closing in and on the verge of attack before he cried out.

"Kaeloriel!"

Weapons were lowered as the wolf bounded straight toward Lianderthral. Síla Lúmenn danced nervously as the midnight animal weaved around her legs, but quieted at a sharp command from Lianderthral. No words were needed between Elf and wolf. Within moments, the beautiful horse was in motion, the others falling in place behind Lianderthral as he led them.

"Follow us," Lianderthral ordered over his shoulder to the others. "Sariel is already with Belderon."

Kaeloriel was a dark shadow ahead of them all, guiding their way.

* * *

"Belderon," Sariel stated flatly, turning to face the golden-haired elf, nothing in her expression betraying what she felt. Indeed, she felt very little. She had not seen him for awhile now, but the face was as familiar to her as her own, if not more so. It was once all she had seen for a long, long time.

He did not deign to answer her, instead turning and looking at her eloquently. It was answer enough. Sariel hesitated, fighting the return of her innate fear of him, rooted so deeply inside of her that nothing could relieve it.

"I have returned to you," she said haltingly, "Master." The last word was hard to get out and Belderon noticed it, because he noticed everything.

The fact that she was weaponless wore on Sariel's nerves. She could not remember the last time that she had been totally unarmed of her own free will. Slowly, the numbness faded, replaced by the one feeling that Belderon had always awakened: abject fear.

_I am doing this for them, _she told herself, but it did not comfort her. _Why? For Lessena, the sister you never knew? For Legolas, who cares nothing for what you have done because of him? _

She could not push the thoughts away. With Belderon before her, they came even faster, flooding her mind with traitorous arguments. _Do you think you do this for Lianderthral, who can take care of himself far better than you can? Who does not need anyone else ruining his life for him, least of all _you_?_

_So why are you doing this? You do this for yourself, because you are a coward._

"Selfish, Sariel, so very selfish of you," Belderon murmured, echoing the thoughts in her head. She drew back as if she had been struck, but Belderon merely smiled.

"I…" She did not know how to say what she had realized, but Sariel knew that she did not have to say it at all. Belderon knew her as if she were his own child. She stood before him and begged to be taken back because she had come to terms with herself and with what she was. He knew that and had been expecting it.

He reached out and traced the curve of her cheek, waiting until her head bowed before him before lightly kissing her forehead. It was almost a paternal gesture, but he did not mean for it to give comfort. Rather, it was a mockery, just as their relationship was a mockery of many things: master and servant, father and daughter, teacher and student. "You have come to surrender."

"Yes, Master."

Once, she had pretended that when her mother and sister were free, she would come back to take her revenge on Belderon for the destruction of her life. He had done so much to her, the reasons all blurred together. Her father killed, her home burned down, the remainder of her family enslaved. She had wished every day for the opportunity for vengeance, had imagined it over and over. She would take everything Belderon had taught her about killing and turn it around to use it on him.

But now, she had given all her wishes up. One by one, she had let them go. Aurielen, her father's sword, had been left behind with all her other weapons. For so many years, she had denied the truth of it to herself—that whatever she may do, she could at most find escape in death. She would never be strong enough to defeat Belderon. Perhaps she had denied it because she needed the lie to sustain her hope. Without faith she would have died, for Elves were beings of the spirit as much as they were of the flesh, and when the spirit was crushed, the body had no reason to live.

Belderon toyed with a lock of her hair, twining it about his fingers. He seemed to take perverse pleasure in drawing out the inevitable, as if he knew the barrage of thoughts and memories he evoked in her. He watched her face avidly for signs of the emotion that he had trained her to disregard. "My nightingale, returned to me at last. Tell me, will you sing?"

He gave the lock of hair a sharp tug before dropping it. Staring at the glossy black strands, Sariel realized with a start that she could not remember what her father looked like. She was an Elf, their memories were clear, unaffected by time. So why could she not remember? He had black hair, like her own—she knew that much, since she had inherited it from him, and her blue eyes from her mother. It had reached his shoulders in curling waves and she used to play with it, using her fingers to comb it and learning the different ways of braiding that the Elves used. A smiling mouth had looked down at her, lips gently curved in a smile.

But beyond that, she could not recall anything, save for the image of his face in death, and from that her mind shied away. She could not remember what color his eyes were, or how he had looked at her. That fact bothered her more than anything else. She had thought of revenge over so many years, but she had not thought of her _father_. Though the memories should have been vivid, like a waking dream, she had lost them just as surely as she had lost Sariel Nightstar, who was once a child of Lórien.

Underneath all else, she was an assassin in her heart, one who destroyed lives, not someone that pretended to fit in with the rest of the Elves. She thought of Arwen with her tear-filled eyes and of the glimpse she had had of Aragorn, new leader of the orcs and perhaps father of her niece.

Emotions clawed through her at the thought—an innocent _child_—fear and panic battling for control. She pushed back harder against them, waging war against herself and succeeding. How could she not, when she had done the same thing so many times before, with the same result? Yet victory seemed hollow now that she had tasted the sweetness of defeat.

She _wanted_ to scream, to cry, to rebel. But all of those things made her weak, so she pushed them all away, silently counting her breaths until they came evenly and slowly. She kept her blank façade and knew that her eyes had become dark and flat.

In that one moment, everything seemed so calm and quiet. She could not hear her quickened breath, or feel her heart's frantic beating. In that one moment, it was just Belderon and herself in the world, and the rest was superfluous. It was a peaceful place, the space she entered when she killed. A great white soundless empty place, where nothing hurt and nothing felt. Looking at Belderon, Sariel wondered detachedly if her teacher lived in that place, if inside his mind there was no sound and it was all blank and white, empty, calm.

"Sariel," Belderon said with a rich, pleased laugh, shaking his head as if in rueful dismay. "Sariel, my dear." He had seen the change come over her. "Will you sing for me, Nightingale?"

"I offer you anything within my ability to give." Nothing more needed to be said and both of them knew it. It would be his choice, whether he wanted to keep her or kill her.

Belderon looked at her as if he had never seen her before. She withstood the scrutiny stoically, although he raked her body from head to tone with his colorless eyes, lingering at times over certain areas. A trickle of dread trailed down her back, making her swallow hard, for all her control. There was something new here, something wrong.

He reached out and circled her throat with his hand, and she closed her eyes instinctively against the pale gaze boring down at her. He had to feel the way her pulse jumped madly, fluttering against his hand like a trapped butterfly; he had to feel the revulsion that swept all the way through her body in one long shudder. For a moment, she thought he would snap her neck and be done with it. She waited for the sudden tightening of his hand, the vise-like grip he would have on her unprotected neck.

"Anything, my dear?"

She had lost all she had to bargain. Eyes still closed, Sariel swallowed again against his hand, and whispered it. "Anything. You know what I ask for in return."

She felt that he was considering it, and it was yet another sign that something was wrong. Belderon did not consider these things, should not be considering them now. He should have already decided. It was a chess game with the next seven moves thought out, the black queen capturing the white king in the end. In her mind's eye, she could see it all. Sariel had just offered herself up as the sacrifice, the black knight that would be taken by the white rook, necessary to move that queen into place, one maneuver at a time. Her sacrifice would enable the defeat that left all the other white pieces on the board protected from harm, each guarding another.

It was all laid out before them, the conclusion inevitable. So what was Belderon considering?

She wanted to scream; inside, she was screaming. But there was no one to hear. More than anything else, she wanted to attack. Instead, she held herself perfectly still, deprived of sight.

"Very well," Belderon agreed finally. "It shall be as you wish."

He left it open to a thousand possibilities. Sariel waited for more, having played this game before. He let go of her and she dared to open her eyes. He was smiling at her in a delighted way, but the look on his face made her feel sick. She reminded herself that he had never broken his word.

"Their lives, in exchange for my complete possession of you," Belderon confirmed. He reached out to touch her face, tracing the side of her face almost tenderly, and she nearly recoiled. There was a look in his eyes that she had never seen before, and it terrified her. "I want your loyalty, your mind, everything. You will be mine, Sariel, even your body."

She stared at him, too numb to answer, but the terms had already been set. In all the years, the centuries, the two millennia, he had never wanted that. Never that. Never toward her mother, her sister, or herself. All female and he had never tried anything, hinted at anything. There were some laws sacred to their race that even he had not broken. She had expected some kind of punishment, perhaps torture. She would have embraced the pain of his sharp, thin blades cutting into her skin. She would have locked herself away from whatever mental games he wanted to play with her; she had expected it. She could have withstood anything, all the training necessary to hammer home the lesson of _feel nothing_. He _knew _why she had failed to kill the prince of Mirkwood.

But even as the thought came to her mind, she knew that this was exactly why he had changed. He could not order her or force her to stop her feelings for another, no matter what games he played or what tortures he invented. He could only make her hate herself, to the point that there was nothing left, least of all love.

And in teaching her to feel nothing, Belderon was proving that he was beyond it all, as well, feeling nothing. Not even horror or shame or guilt over that most taboo of crimes in his race. Had he begun to think of it when he had forced Aragorn on Lessena? Or had he planned this even earlier, and had only used that because of her unexpected stubbornness, the delay in her surrender?

It took her a long, long moment to slip back into that sweet emptiness, to make her reply. "As you wish," she said, echoing his words back at him, and her voice sounded empty and hollow, too.

He was pleased, she could tell, although not exactly surprised. It was all a sham, after all. She had no choice, no power to bargain, but he liked it better when it seemed as if she _had_ chosen. In some ways, it validated his victory. "I had not thought that you would comply. Not without one last rebellion."

"It will be as you wish, Master," she said again, sinking to her knees in front of him, her heel-length black cloak billowing out behind her as if there was a gust of wind she could not feel.

"Then perhaps I will have my revenge on your handsome prince after all, who will languish in his misery until he dies of a broken heart." He looked down at where she was kneeling and gave a small laugh. "Did you know, Sariel, that your mother and sister only lived because they had hope that you would save them?"

She ignored his question. "You will not have your revenge, Belderon." This time, there was no need to pretend. The sudden pain strengthened her resolve, though she had felt that she had reached her limits. "He cares nothing for me."

"But you for him, yes." It was more statement that question, but he waited for her to answer.

"If it pleases you, Master," Sariel said quietly.

He stared down at her, considering again. "Do you truly believe he would _not_ die for you?"

"Yes." Just that. It had the force of her belief behind it.

He shook his head as if in pity. Belderon extended his hand out to her and Sariel gave him hers. As smoothly as any courtier, he helped her stand. Still taller, he reached out to slip his hand under her chin, tilting her face up so he could examine it. Despite his kind gestures, there was only cold interest in his expression, as if he were looking for flaws in a diamond. "So, it is not a question of whether he cares, but how much, and if it is enough."

"If you say so, Master."

"Obedience does not come naturally to you, Sariel. It is all the more delightful when one can command it."

He leaned down and she saw with horror what he wanted to do. His lips brushed hers as she went rigid in his arms; she closed her eyes not in pleasure, but in terror. Two tears squeezed out and he caught them on his fingertips.

The kiss had been completely chaste and yet it was almost worse than if he had tried to force it. He cupped the nape of her neck with one hand and she stopped breathing for a moment, wondering if he intended for her to fulfill the terms of their arrangement now.

Instead, his colorless eyes looked contemplative. "Lessena may go."

She sucked in a breath and then her eyes narrowed in anger when she realized his trick. "She is drugged. Master."

"Oh, the fire _does_ return," he said thoughtfully, and then the façade of pleasantness slipped away. "Did you expect any less of me?"

He waited and she waited, but he wanted an answer from her so Sariel finally shook her head in denial.

"I will give you the antidote, though I am sorely disappointed in you, my pet. I would have thought you would recognize it, the same I dosed the strange one, the Elf with powers like a wizard."

She felt another surge of anger but kept her eyes demurely lowered. "There are many drugs you taught me, Master, which cause similar effects."

His eyes narrowed; he had not been distracted by her reply. "What of the power? How did _you_ come to possess it, Nightingale?"

Something inside of her protested when he called her that, but she ignored it out of long habit. He called her that to forever remind her in all these little ways that she was his creature, more completely under his control than a caged bird. But now she truly would be completely his, soon.

Her knees went weak and she thought that she would fall, but she steeled herself. The moment passed like any other, although she had no doubt that Belderon had noted it as well.

"It is mine by birthright," she answered.

Belderon's eyes gleamed. "Your father. I see."

She had not known that and had not even considered it. Was it one of the reasons why she could not remember him? Had her father used the same powers and if so, had Lianderthral or his teacher known him? But Belderon was relentlessly questioning her again.

"What can you do?"

She took a shallow breath, but it was still the truth that came out. "I can channel the power of the four elements to some extent. It takes great skill and concentration and I have not learned much of what I may be able to do."

"You surprise me more every time, my dear. Perhaps I have always underestimated you." She had risen in value in his eyes.

She did not reply but he slid an arm around her waist, pulling her close for something like an embrace, although she held her arms by her sides.

"I planned for my orcs, led by Aragorn, to burn the forests of Mirkwood down to the ground after all the Elves have been slaughtered." He looked at her to gauge her reaction, but she gave him nothing. "I will have _you_ do it, my little Nightingale. With your new powers, I will have you set fire to the entire forest, and if your prince lives long enough, he will have the honor of watching you burn his kingdom to ashes."

Sariel shuddered in Belderon's arms, the motion impossible to hide from him when he was holding her against him, but said nothing. It was a game of predator stalking predator, student against teacher. Champion versus creator.

"I tire of this," he said after a long silence, unable to outwait her. "Go, see to your sister." He withdrew a small glass vial from a pocket and she took it from him. It was bigger than the one around her throat, about three times larger, and held a familiar clear golden liquid.

Her eyes burned suddenly as she remembered her efforts to find the _silphieron_ and how close Lianderthral had been to death. Belderon looked at her sharply, sensing her sudden weakness, but this was the one thing he could not fathom.

_This is why you are doing this,_ she reminded herself.

"Consider Lessena my gift to you, my pretty Nightingale. But later, you will come back to these rooms again and you will sing. And then it will be time to honor your agreement with me."

* * *

Sariel held Lessena's upper body in her arms so that her sister was halfway in her lap. She was glad that Lessena was very light, but her sister was taller that she was, which made things awkward. With one hand she held the uncapped vial and then carefully shifted her right arm so that Lessena's head was tilted back at the right angle. As a result of the positioning, her sister's lips were already slightly parted.

She started pouring a thin stream of liquid into her sister's mouth, stopping periodically to see that she did not choke. It did not take long for Lessena to begin to respond, so she knew that her sister had been given a relatively light dose of the poison. The antidote itself was in a high concentration, she could tell.

"Sariel?" Blue eyes similar to her own opened, filled with confusion. With some effort, Lessena raised herself. "Why are you here?"

"Just drink first, Lessena." She poured all that was left in the vial into her sister's mouth.

"Have you… Have you come back?"

At Sariel's short nod, Lessena sagged against her sister's arm. "Oh, Sariel." Her voice held none of the condemnation that Sariel had almost expected to hear—she had been imagining that Lessena would react as if she were one of her companions. Instead, Lessena said her name with a world of relief in her voice. Her sister hugged her, unsuccessfully blinking back tears.

"I was so afraid. I-I couldn't stop him. He did…" Lessena's words were rushed, her eyes unfocused, although Sariel could not tell if it was because of the lingering effects of the poison or because she was reliving the trauma. She rocked Lessena in her arms instinctively, trying to sooth the distraught girl.

"Shhh, Lessena. I know. You don't have to say anything."

"You know?" Without waiting to hear Sariel's answer, Lessena burst into tears, her thin frame racked by sobs. Sariel smoothed back golden hair and cradled her sister's head against her shoulder. This close, she could see what she had not noticed before. Lessena was more bruised than ever, varying discolored marks of purple, blue, and yellowish green on the visible skin of her arms and legs.

Something inside Sariel turned even colder and smaller when she wondered if it would be the same for her. She could hardly comfort Lessena, feeling as if it were all a sham. In perhaps just a few hours, _she_ would be the victim.

"It's all over," she told Lessena. In a way, it was true. Her sister's freedom had been bought, although it had not quite been paid for yet. "You will be all right."

"You came back," Lessena repeated, clutching the folds of Sariel's cloak in her hand. "You came back for me and you know what I did."

"Not what _you_ did," Sariel said sharply, before she softened her tone. Lessena had almost calmed down, but her sister's sudden fierceness had shaken her. "What _he_ did, Lessena. Not you. Never say that again."

Lessena nodded and it was all Sariel could do to fight back tears herself. Thankfully, her sister seemed to attribute the rare sign of her emotion to their unexpected reunion. But Sariel's thoughts were far from that subject. She was thinking to herself that unlike her sister, it _was _her. She had made a choice. Belderon had set her up for it, but it was still her choice, was it not?

"Listen to me carefully, all right? You are free to go, Lessena. I want you to find my companions. They were in the southwest regions of the forest, although I do not know if they are still there. You need only to find them and they will help you, if you tell them I sent you. You might see Belderon's orcs, but none of them will touch you." Sariel hesitated and then her hand went up to her throat, undoing the clasp that secured her black cloak.

"Here, wear this." She quickly pulled the cloak around Lessena and pinned it with the clasp. "They will need to know that it is not a trick. Tell them that…" She thought for a moment, needing to remember something unique, something that Belderon would not have been able to say. _My Nightingale_, she thought suddenly, and almost smiled. "Tell them that a little brown sparrow sent you."

Legolas would remember, she felt sure, although it had been so long ago. It was from the song that they had sung together in Lothlórien, before they had kissed and before she had tried to kill him. The melody and lyrics had been written by his sister, Rhiannon. That was too much for anyone to forget.

"Tell it to me now," she said to Lessena. "A little brown sparrow set me to you."

"A little brown sparrow sent me to you," her sister repeated after her.

"Good, Lessena. You must also tell them to go directly to Mirkwood. Belderon may have sent his orcs there already, so they absolutely must not wait. They must warn the Elves of what is coming. Do you remember all of that?"

Lessena nodded but her eyes seemed too wide, as if she were about to panic. Even without her sister urging her, however, she took a few deep breaths. "Sariel, Belderon's orcs are in the forest, but I cannot lead them to your friends. The forest is enormous, too. How will I find them?"

Sariel took her hand and squeezed it briefly, wishing she had a clear answer to give. "I know how difficult it will be, but you simply must find a way, Lessena. Do not worry about leading orcs to them. Leave that for them to take care of. Your main goal is to just find them. Regardless of what message you carry, you need their help."

"But how will I recognize them?"

Sariel clamped down on her impatience, realizing that her sister was frightened and trying her best. "There will be a Dwarf, four Elves, a wizard, as well as a Man. The leader is known as Mithrandir, or Gandalf. They will be unmistakable, Lessena. The only other things out there are Belderon's orcs."

"All right," Lessena whispered. Sariel looked her over and realized what she had almost disregarded in her hurry.

"Lessena, we must trade clothes. You cannot go wearing that." She changed out of her shirt and breeches and traded them for Lessena's white dress. She had even given her sister her boots, leaving herself barefoot.

The stone floors were cold, but the fine, white material of the dress made her feel even more vulnerable. She was used to wearing dark colors and this dress's function strictly ornamental. Now, not only was she weaponless, but she also knew that Belderon was waiting for her and there was a good chance that he would like that she was wearing this semi-transparent dress. It had probably been Belderon who picked it out for Lessena in the first place.

She rearranged her cloak on Lessena's thinner form and pulled the hood up to hide her sister's bright hair. The cloak shadowed Lessena's face and Sariel realized suddenly that her sister could even pass for her. It was a startling thought. She had spent so much time thinking of the differences between them that she had not even realized that aside from their completely different hair color, they had similar features.

"There you go. Lessena, you must go." Sariel drew her sister into one last hug, suddenly unsure whether Lessena was drawing strength from her, or the other way around. "Be safe. Remember, a little brown sparrow." She felt a certain grim satisfaction in knowing that she was redefining herself for this one last thing, before she actually turned into Belderon's nightingale forever.

She opened the door and was about to usher Lessena through when her sister suddenly turned to her again, reaching blindly for her hand. "Wait, Sariel." Lessena searched her face but naturally could found no hint of what she was feeling. "What about you? Why did you return, if I can go?"

Sariel had believed that Lessena had implicitly understood what had happened—that she had made some kind of bargain with Belderon, resulting in at least Lessena's freedom. She had not counted on the strength of Lessena's naivety. Despite so many years controlled by Belderon, her sister still had never seen him at his cruelest or most fearsome. Something in her actually eased with the realization that Lessena had not simply been taking her own chance to leave while knowing that Sariel would remain behind.

"I have things to take care of," she said gently. "You must go first, Lessena."

"Why can you not simply come with me?" Lessena's expression was so earnest. "Leave him, Sariel. This is our chance. Ever since Mother died, I thought I would die like her. Why must you seek vengeance?"

She thought she knew the answer when Sariel looked away, although the truth was that Sariel could not bear looking at her when the hope in her face was so bright. "Father would understand," she urged. "Mother—" she faltered for a moment, but gathered herself. "Mother always told me of him. She said he always would tell her that the living must come first, because the dead can wait a little longer."

"Never mind me, Lessena." Despite herself, Sariel felt her face going blank, mask slipping into place. She could see the difference on Lessena's face, the sudden flicker of uncertainty, even fear, when her sister saw her expression—one that she had seen on Belderon before.

"Just come with me," Lessena begged again.

"Go, Lessena," Sariel said. "I will join you as soon as I am able." The words appeased her sister, although she still looked unsure. "Hurry."

She flung her arms around Sariel one last time and then stepped back. "Promise you will be careful."

Sariel was about to tell her that they had no time for such foolishness, but it was the last time she would see her sister, and she could not bring herself to say it. Even knowing that precious moments were passing, she could not deny Lessena. "I will," she said as convincingly as she could. "I love you, Lessena. May Elbereth watch over you."

"And you," Lessena replied. Her blue eyes grew unfocused for a moment, dark shadows of something—premonition, perhaps—passing over her face. She was, after all, kin to the Lady Galadriel. "I have always loved you, Sariel. Never forget that, no matter what else you believe."

With that, she walked out of the room, the door closing gently behind her. Sariel had always been the one walking out and Lessena, the one remaining behind, locked away. Now their roles were reversed and Sariel could only hope that her sister would make it safely to the others. One person was out of Belderon's reach at last. If Lessena found the companions and they immediately set out for Mirkwood, perhaps they would all be saved. Whatever else, at least her sister was free.

Once alone, it was too hard to hold onto her unemotional mask. She felt unwanted tears well up in her eyes, the numbness fading for a moment, letting the pain bleed through.

"Farewell," she whispered. It was for both Lessena and for herself.

* * *

**A/N**: If you're reading this and would like more chapters, **please review**. Reviews tell me that people are reading this, which means that I actually have to finish revising the chapters so I can get them up. Otherwise, there's really no reason for me to rush if no one's reading, you know? I might not be updating with the revised chapters for a while as I'm studying for probably the most important test of my life, which is a month away. (And no, it's not the SATs.)

_Final version, August 2009 _


	15. An Enduring Light

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

_Dedication: To J, because your story matters, as all the others do. You trusted me enough and I will never forget._

******Chapter 15: An Enduring Light**

****She had never gone so far outside and Lessena was afraid. Despite what she had suffered in the placeshe now left behind, the dangers were all those that had become familiar and expected over the years. But after centuries of the same kinds of patterns, everything had changed. Lessena did not understand why, but she knew what had started it all. Before her sister had left this last time, she had been unusually full of hope, saying things that had made their mother angry and distraught. Things had returned to normal for a few weeks after that until Lorianiel's death, which had left Lessena all alone with Belderon.

Lessena's hands shook as she gathered the cloak closer around her. Belderon had never been kind, but he had rarely been deliberately cruel. She knew that it was because they were hostages for Sariel's good behavior, so Belderon was reluctant to wear out the use of the threat he held against his assassin. But even if that had not been true, the methods of torture that Belderon preferred were those that were inflicted more on the spirit than on the body.

Except that had changed too, Lessena thought. She stopped now and clung to the stone wall beside her, shutting her eyes as a wave of dizziness passed through her. Clad in Sariel's completely black clothing, she was just another shadow in the mountainside crags and that was exactly what she felt—hollowed out, turned into a shadow, a ghost. She fought the wave of memories, her knees going weak and an acidic taste suddenly filling her mouth.

There had been hands on her body, stroking and slapping, pinching, trapping her wrists and leaving bracelets of bruises with clearly defined, individual finger marks. He had stripped her brusquely, inspecting her and touching her as if she were a rare animal that he had caught. It had been cold and she had instinctively crossed her arms around herself, shrinking away.

She remembered staring up, somehow unable to look away. Throughout it all, she had not struggled except when she panicked and could not help herself. She had known that no one would be coming to stop the man. Belderon had approved it and even if he had not, none would have had any reason to interfere. She had only cried out once, the first time. She was somehow proud of that but also guilty. The sound had made the man flinch before his expression hardened. She realized that it had been a mistake and had angered him because he was twice as rough with her after that.

His teeth had left marks on her body that had not yet healed. But more than anything else during the entire time, what had frightened her had not been his actions, but rather, the expression in his eyes. Even Belderon had never looked like that. The only thing that Lessena had seen that had been remotely similar to it was when Belderon had been displeased with two of the guards who were responsible for Lorianiel and herself. He had imprisoned them separately without food or water and then had put them together and given them weapons, not that they had needed them. The orcs had fought each other while Lessena and her mother had watched. The victor had begun to cannibalize the other before he had even fully died.

Whatever happened to her, she did not want to die like that.

Clenching her hands into fists, Lessena pushed away from the wall, determined to find her sister's companions. She did not know exactly what Sariel had done to buy her freedom, but Belderon would not have let his last hostage go without making sure that he was getting the better end of the deal. After so many years, freedom was almost an inconceivable concept. Now, no matter what, she needed to pass on her sister's message.

She had not run very far but was forced to stop when she entered the forest and found some safety in the trees, although they were still sparse here on the border. Lessena tried to ignore the painful ache in her sides and the blisters on her feet that made every step an agony. Her sister would not have been bothered by how cold and damp the air was, easily penetrating through the layers of clothing she wore. Nor would Sariel have been blindly crashing through the forest, the silence around her serving only to emphasize Lessena's noisy passage. She listened to her own harsh breathing and watched her breath puff out in white clouds before her, fighting back tears.

She had completely lost track of time after the man had left her alone and even now, Lessena could not judge how long it had been since she had parted from her sister. Her anxious thoughts leapt from one thing to another as she tried to hold it all together.

What did it mean, she wondered, that a little brown sparrow sent her? It was obvious that Sariel was the sparrow, but why had she named herself thus? Belderon had always called her sister his nightingale. It was yet another unknown. And Belderon had looked at her with an odd expression she had not seen from him before, when he came to get the man and had seen her.

She had been completely quiet by then, cold and trembling. He had looked at her as if he regretted something; it was only until then that it occurred to her that if she was alone with Belderon now that he had killed her mother, then the reverse was also true. She had lived for centuries not knowing any others of her kind other than Belderon and her family, but he had been similarly exiled.

Lorianiel had warned Lessena that there would be times when they would soften toward their captor and cease to resist, and over the years, she had discovered the truth of the possibility. The sheer boredom of their imprisonment alone had made his infrequent visits the highlight of what was sometimes months. The emotions he inspired in her were not always negative, even though they should have been.

But she would never have guessed that such a moment of weakness could come at such a time, that her fear of the man had made her view Belderon's arrival as a kind of rescue.

Yet whether she had glimpsed regret or something else, it did not matter in the end. All he had said to her was that it had been necessary. She had not understood, except that it was just another way of using her to control Sariel, but then, he had not meant for her to understand. She had never known anything.

Strength poured into her limbs at the thought, originating in the anger that overtook her. She was sick of sitting in the shadows and pacing the rooms that she never left. The terrors she had left behind were nothing compared to what she faced now, and yet knowing that she could die was a kind of freedom in and of itself.

The rush of energy had distracted her from her surroundings for a moment and it was over the sound of her own pounding heartbeat that Lessena heard the rhythmic hoof beats. Despite what Sariel had said about Belderon ordering the orcs not to harm her, she could not believe it. But were the approaching riders more of Belderon's orcs or those that she sought?

She had enough presence of mind to do her best to slip into the dense underbrush, leaving behind the path she had been following. Dead twigs and leaves crackled when she disturbed them and scored shallow but painful scratches along her arms. Her hands went up to the hood of her cloak, making sure that it concealed her pale face in its shadow. The first rider came in sight even as she crouched down, trying to make herself less visible.

Faint light shone down on a cloaked form that Lessena instinctively knew was of her own race, everything in her body tensing with wonder. A low cry came from her at the apparition, her eyes instantaneously taking in the similarities between the male and herself, the features that made him an Elf.

The rider's head turned in her direction and Lessena stood up even as he reined in his horse and threw himself off. The movement was so smooth that she barely comprehended it before he was before her. He seized her shoulders, his hands tightening almost painfully and she nearly shrieked in fear, memories flooding back at his touch.

"Sariel!" the stranger exclaimed fervently, his expression pained. He drew her into a hard embrace, repeating the name again like a prayer. This brought Lessena back to her senses and she stiffened in the Elf's clasp, her hands reaching up and fumbling with the hood that covered her hair. Her shaking fingers finally pulled it down just as the Elf drew back.

"Not Sariel," she whispered as he looked down at her in shock and saw that moonlight shone down on hair even fairer than his own. He had not yet let go of her arm and she had to force herself to stay still.

The others had stopped and formed a semicircle around them, most having dismounted as well. Lessena took it all in with a quick glance and then turned back to the stranger, warily examining his face.

"Who are you?" he asked, although she saw from his expression that he had guessed already.

"I am her sister," she answered as steadily as she could. "I am called Lessena." To her surprise, there was another Elf stepping forward that looked almost exactly like the one holding her. She spared a moment to wonder if such similarity of features was natural for her race, but all such frivolous thoughts fled when agitated blue eyes locked with hers.

"Where is your sister?"

She thought that he did not intend to threaten her but Lessena could not help recoiling instinctively when he came even closer. Her pulse hammered in her throat and it was all she could do to choke out her answer. "She remained behind." _With Belderon_, she wanted to say, but could not. They knew, anyway.

The hand on her arm tightened, bringing her attention back to the first Elf. Distrust had replaced concern. "How did you escape? Did you betray her?"

"No!" She shook her head in frantic denial, afraid now of the two that looked at her with expressions that promised violence if they did not like her answer. "Sariel told me to go and she wanted me to find you."

The Elf holding her turned to look at one of the others watching them, an old man standing next to a beautiful white stallion, one hand gripping a staff and the other resting on the proudly arched neck of the stallion. He had to be the wizard, Lessena realized with awe.

"Belderon may have let her go to use her as bait for his trap," the Elf said to them. "For all we know, he may have sent her to us himself."

"_No!_" Lessena denied again, pulling her arm back to no avail, since she was unable to break free from the Elf. For a moment, she thought of the man again, hands like manacles around her wrists. Her struggles now had pulled back her sleeves and exposed the ugly purple and blue that formed complete bracelets around her bony wrists.

Panic descended on her and she struggled like a wild animal caught in a trap, hardly aware of the sounds she was making. Her free hand lashed out and clawed across flesh at one point, drawing a hiss of anger, before a hand closed around the bruises and caused her to whimper in pain. She stopped fighting completely, sobs burning her throat and bursting out. With no more will left in her, she sagged in their hold and dropped to her knees.

"Let her go," she heard another voice command, clearly female but still authoritative. To Lessena's relief, the green-eyed one, the one that had first met her, did so. The other hesitated. "Legolas, let her go. Would you hurt her more?"

She was finally released and she stumbled backward a few steps, away from them. Lessena brought her arms to her sides, hugging herself and looking down at the ground. She rocked a little, the panic fading a little as she remembered. Sariel had anticipated that her companions would not trust her. She should have expected that they would be upset that it was she, and not Sariel, that had come to them.

"I am Arwen," the female Elf introduced herself. Lessena looked up at her, the face before her seeming to be oddly familiar until she realized that Arwen looked vaguely like Sariel and even a little bit like herself. "Lessena, can you tell us what happened?"

Her voice was calm and clear, soothing to hear. It invited her confidences and promised her trust. Lessena stared at the lady, somehow forgetting all the others surrounding her. Here was someone who would help her, who would _listen_.

"I—the man—" she started, voice breaking. Abruptly, Lessena fell silent, embarrassment flushing her cheeks. She had instinctively been about to tell this Elf about what she had experienced, what had been at the forefront of her mind just moments ago when the others had held her wrists.

But of course that was not what Arwen meant, and that was not what they were all waiting to hear.

Arwen's eyes were shining with tears and Lessena found it both reassuring and uncomfortable to stand before her. The former was because Arwen seemed so kind and Lessena automatically wanted to trust her, whereas the latter stemmed from the feeling that Arwen understood things about her that she did not even realize herself. Her words only increased Lessena's unease. "I know, Lessena. I know."

She extended her hand out in front of Lessena, who stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment before she found the courage to reach out and accept the grasp. She wanted to trust these strangers, but at the same time she could not fathom why they were like this. All of them were so concerned about Sariel and so passionate about her safety. But what was her sister to them?

Arwen helped her to her feet, her grip firm, although her hands were cold. When she let go, Lessena's eyes were drawn to their hands and she saw that Arwen's were trembling faintly. The Elf saw her glance and quickly withdrew her hands, clasping them together before her. Afraid to ask, lest Arwen decide to question her in return, Lessena pretended she had not noticed anything.

"Sariel _did _send me," Lessena told her. "She wanted me to give you a message and she knew that you would not trust me, so she gave me something to tell you to prove that I am not acting in Belderon's plans."

"Tell us," snapped the Elf that Arwen had addressed as Legolas. His hostile tone first upset and then angered her. She had never fought, never even argued back, but her emotions were spiraling out of control and she had been pushed too far.

"'A little brown sparrow sent me,'" Lessena recited softly, staring directly at him, daring him to challenge the truth of her story. She was unprepared to see the sudden look of naked pain in his eyes at her words. It lasted only a few heartbeats, but she was sure she had seen it.

"She is telling the truth," he confirmed for the others without moving his eyes from her. Despite how he had treated her, Lessena almost wanted to reach out to touch him in comfort. There was something desperate in his expression. "What did message did she give you?"

"She wanted all of you to go directly to Mirkwood and warn the Elves of what is coming, so that they can prepare." Lessena saw the refusal plainly written in Legolas's face and hurried to say the rest before he could interrupt her. "She said you must not wait because Belderon has already set his orcs there."

She had barely finished speaking before chaos broke out, nearly everyone speaking at once and heatedly. Even though she was still standing in the midst of them, she might as well have been invisible for all the attention they paid her. She surveyed the faces before her and marveled again that Sariel had somehow inspired such loyalty. It was in all of their faces, their raised voices. They truly cared about her or they would not have been fighting about whether to stay or go.

Lessena felt ashamed suddenly, the guilt that she had pushed to the back of the mind nearly overwhelming. She had abandoned her sister, knowing that Sariel would suffer with Belderon, and while part of it was because Sariel had begged her to go, she also knew that another part of it was purely selfish. This had been her one chance to leave and after all that had happened, she could not bear to stay in the place any longer.

These strangers would not have left Sariel, she knew instinctively. Some of them would have given their lives first—just as Sariel would probably defend her with her life, if it had really came to that. And even though Lessena did not know much and certainly knew nothing of the details of what Sariel did for Belderon, she knew that Sariel had done terrible things over the years for them. Was it any wonder that her sister's companions were similarly capable, similarly brave and loyal?

She was nothing to them. She was only a passive victim, all but asking to be used. Even in that capacity, she was nothing. She was useful as a pawn, as a bargaining chip, but once they set out for Mirkwood, they would most likely leave her behind. Even if they did not, they eventually would have to anyway. She was too weak to keep up with them and they needed to travel swiftly. She had never even been on horseback.

She was not thinking of her sister even now, Lessena realized numbly. She could tell herself that it was because she knew Sariel was strong, but against Belderon, none of them had been and none of them were even now. For all Sariel's abilities, she still called Belderon master.

"Eryn Lasgalen is in danger, but that is something we knew before," the wizard was saying. "Lady Galadriel sent messengers to Imladris and Eryn Lasgalen. If the orcs are truly marching to Thranduil's dominion, the Elves will not be unprepared."

"Are we agreed, then?" Lianderthral asked, to varying degrees of assent.

Lessena was horribly relieved that they were going to help Sariel, but at the same time her stomach sank with the knowledge that they were going to leave her behind here, alone. She simply could not go back. Even if she could make the physical journey, she would have rather died than returned.

She looked up to see that yet another Elf was looking at her, this one named Vanidar. He did not intimidate her as much as the others, but Lessena turned away, pulling the hood of the cloak back up to hide her face. Seeing so many of her kind all at once was an overwhelming experience, on top of everything else. Their crystal clear gazes seemed to pierce through her, reading all of her thoughts and feelings. And Arwen had said_ I know_ earlier as if she really had known, although Lessena had said nothing and surely she could not guess. Or was it so obvious that anyone looking at her knew her secret? Lessena shuddered and swallowed, fighting the bile rising in her throat.

"We should not all go," Vanidar said to the rest. "Lessena should not return."

She made some gesture of protest denying what she could see was coming. "You _must_ save my sister and she will need all of you. I will remain here alone."

Vanidar shook his head although they knew that she was right. They were hopelessly outnumbered in comparison to Belderon and his guards. But they were also so outnumbered that an additional one or two people would be unlikely to make a difference. "It is not safe here."

"I do not need a guardian. Belderon—" she faltered, the reasoning sounding as flawed to her now as it had before, when she was trying to convince only herself. "He already gave orders to his orcs not to harm me. I need none to remain with me."

"You trust him to keep his word?" Vanidar retorted scornfully, voice sharp with repressed feeling. She dropped her gaze to the ground, unable to explain why she did, to some extent.

"Gimli and Boromir," Gandalf decided for them all as she remained miserably silent. "They will stay with you."

Lessena looked at the two of them, wondering how they felt at being left with her, whether they were relieved they would not be part of a mission likely to fail or disappointed to be appointed as her watchers.

She was so exhausted and she did not want to have to remember anymore. Lessena listened to the brief discussions around her but could not force herself to be attentive, despite knowing how important these things were. She was seemingly invisible to them again now that they had decided what to do with her and Lessena was glad, because it took some of her tension away. Gimli offered her water and she drank gratefully, a comforting lack of feeling was stealing over her.

At last, it seemed like she was beginning to find some much needed distance from her own self.

* * *

The sky steadily grew lighter as they rode toward Belderon's mountain stronghold, giving the impression that they were racing against the coming of dawn. It had been more than four hours since Legolas had first discovered that Sariel was missing and she could have left much earlier than that. They were all armed, but Legolas carried Sariel's sword and daggers along with his own weapons. The unfamiliar weight of Aurielen slung across his back, in the space his quiver would have normally occupied, only served to remind him with every step that Sariel had left without any solid means of protecting herself.

Despite recognizing the folly of a direct approach, they did not have time for extensive scouting or planning. As it turned out, they encountered no resistance at all, because there was simply no one at the fortress. It was not a good sign, regardless of whether it meant that Belderon was expecting them inside or that he was confident enough to have sent them all marching toward Eryn Lasgalen.

Even the gates were unlocked and the place was as deserted inside as it had been outside. Despite the light that Gandalf and Lianderthral magically provided, the fortress was more like a rabbit warren than a typical stronghold, and it was even harder to navigate in the dark. It was not long before they were hopelessly lost in the maze of chambers. Sometimes they seemed to be descending, other times ascending.

Without Kaeloriel's help, even the Elves' skillful tracking would have amounted to nothing. The black wolf served as their guide, tirelessly leading them onward even when there seemed to be no difference between alternatives routes. They could only trust that his senses were sharper and more trustworthy than their own.

It did not take very long for Kaeloriel to catch hold of a scent that agitated him greatly. The companions moved at a run through the endless corridors, finally arriving before a locked door. Whatever lay beyond was clearly the source of the wolf's fury. The door lasted only a few moments under their combined onslaught and then they burst into the room.

Lianderthral held a handful of flames, fed from a very small piece of wood in his palm, which should have been consumed by the fire in a few breaths at the most. However, it continued to burn brighter as he focused his concentration, the flames turning white-hot around a blue core. The room was thrown into relief, the light chasing away even the shadows in the corners.

They all saw her at the same time, the sight tearing cries from more than one throat. Kaeloriel was the fastest to her, a black streak that even Lianderthral's light could not illuminate, but the rest were only steps behind.

Sariel lay prone on the floor near the center of the room, her body utterly still. She had been wearing some kind of white dress made out of a filmy, flimsy material at one point. Most of it was now soaked with blood and the red was too dark for it to have been all fresh.

Legolas reached down to hold a trembling hand to her neck, closing his eyes briefly a rush of dizzy, profound relief when he found her pulse. They gathered around her, some crouching down besides her battered body. He looked up again to see the horrified expression in Arwen's eyes before he really even understood what it was they were seeing.

Bathed in the glow of Lianderthral's light, Sariel's injuries seemed almost fantastical, so carefully planned and executed that it left no doubt that her tormenter had deliberately made it evocative of some kind of stylized art. They had glimpsed some of Lessena's injuries, although most had been hidden. Sariel had no cloak to cover her.

To the Elves, who had a natural eye for detail, it was clear that her attacker was meticulous. Brutal, yes, but also controlled—a sadist keenly aware of his work. The injuries proved that he had broken her down in a variety of ways. Her eyes were closed, but one was already swelling and becoming a purple-red, while the shadow of another extensive bruise covered her face from cheekbone down. There were at least a dozen shallow cuts on her neck that must have been inflicted after she had fallen unconscious, because the blood had not smeared. Instead, it formed thin red lines as if she wore some kind of exotic necklace.

Her hands were tied together in front of her with chains like the one that had bound Lianderthral. A huge red and swollen welt on the inside of her forearm near her elbow showed that Belderon's creativity had extended to branding. The coppery tang of blood was thick in the air, reminding them that there was much more that what their eyes could immediately take in.

"How could he do this to her?"

"Sariel, oh Elbereth…"

Their whispers were disbelieving and anguished

None of them had truly understood what Sariel had been up against. It had been easy to judge her for what she had failed to do and the choices she had made, but now, faced with the evidence of how far Belderon was willing to go, they knew that her resistance itself had been extraordinary.

Lianderthral checked for broken bones with cautious hands, afraid to move her lest he hurt her even more. He found none; it seemed that Belderon thought broken bones would be too disabling for his purposes, although he certainly had not spared her any possible pain. There was a bed in the room and Vanidar began to tear the sheets into bandages with his knife. The sound of cloth being sliced apart spurred the others into action, but before much more could be done, a hair-raising sound came from Kaeloriel.

The black wolf had separated from the group huddled around Sariel without anyone noticing. There was another entrance to the room which they had all overlooked in the first rush to Sariel's side; they had not secured their surroundings and it had been a foolish thing to forget. The other door opened now and a golden haired Elf entered the chamber, pale eyes aglow from Lianderthral's light.

He did not look menacing as he approached them with gliding grace. Legolas looked up from Sariel and recognized him. Centuries had passed, but Belderon had not changed—he wore the same expression as he had when he had been most trusted by the king and a lord among their people.

Surveying the faces before him with avid interest, Belderon began to laugh. "My, my. To think I merit such attention as to have the likes of the wizard Mithrandir, the daughter of Lord Elrond, and an Elvish princeling."

"Not you," Lianderthral snarled, his words blending with Kaeloriel's only slightly more animalistic growl. "Never _you_."

"Who else, then? You came for my pet?" Belderon laughed. "Surely not." He looked at their leader mockingly. "You cannot expect me to believe that the great Mithrandir came all this way because of her pretty tears?"

"We came for Sariel." Gandalf stood with his white staff in one hand and sword in the other, looking as if he could defeat Belderon in a moment if he chose to do so.

Belderon shook his head pityingly. "If that is actually true, then she has succeeded where I thought she had failed. What better gift than to personally end the life of Thranduil's son?" He spread both hands out palms up as if to show it was beyond doubt. "And why should you take such interest in her? She is weak. Look at her now."

None of them fell for his trick and looked; Belderon knew the sight would anger them and wanted to push them past rationality. He was outnumbered, even if he showed no sign of fear.

"She is more powerful than you can ever imagine," Vanidar rashly retorted, unable to let his statement stand. The look on Belderon's face confirmed that he already knew.

"So you admit it," he said calmly. "She is useful to you because of _what_ she is, not who she is. You still despise and fear her, for you know she is one who takes the innocent lives of her own people."

"Why did you do this to her?" Legolas's voice rang out loud in the chamber, growing harsher with every word. "If she is nothing but a weapon for you to use, why break her? Why leave her like this?"

The corner of Belderon's mouth quirked slightly when he saw who was addressing him, but then his eyes turned flat and shrewd, his charm disappearing to leave only a predatory gleam. "We meet again, Legolas. You have no idea how long I have been waiting for this moment. As for the rest…" He lifted one shoulder slightly in an elegant shrug and when he spoke, his voice was nonchalant. "Perhaps I simply want to do it."

Legolas had been behind the others, closer to where Sariel lay, but now he advanced forward with sword in hand until he was closer to Belderon than any of the others. To either side of him, just slightly behind, Gandalf and Lianderthral watched him, clearly willing him not to recklessly attack.

Belderon appeared to be alone and defenseless, but he would not put himself in such a position of danger. He was the one who had come to find them after leaving Sariel there as bait.

"You simply wanted to do it?" Legolas said incredulously, putting every bit of his anger and scorn into the words. "You turned on the one weapon you have been developing for a thousand years because of a mere whim? You seem to be in denial, so let me answer the question for you, Belderon. You were testing yourself. You wanted to see how far you could go, how depraved you have become."

Something like rage flashed across Belderon's face as the companions drew a silent collective breath, the obvious accuracy of Legolas's observations surprising them.

"You believe I still have some part of the noble heart you remember you're your Lord of Mirkwood?" Belderon sneered. "Did you tell them, I wonder, that I watched you grow from child into adult? Did you tell them of my friendship with Thranduil, the oath of fealty I swore to him? And did you tell them of how Thranduil betrayed me in a heartbeat?"

"Your son stopped the heartbeat of his daughter," Legolas threw back at him, but Belderon was not to be stopped.

"What is one millennia spent fashioning a weapon compared to all those years I spent serving Thranduil?" The sound of his laughter was bitter enough to taste. "I was there when his father was slain in the War of the Last Alliance and he established his halls as the Elvenking. Half a century later, I battled against the shadow of Dol Guldur beside him and mourned with him when Greenwood the Great became known as the Forest of Great Fear. When we were driven further north into the mountains, I persuaded the Elves that retreat was the only option. In the Battle of Five Armies, I was second only to him."

"And yet you betrayed him in the end and broke all your vows," Legolas cut in. Light flashed off the steel of the sword he held. "You betrayed everything you stood for."

"_He_ betrayed _me!_"

"You cannot believe that entirely. You knew that your son committed crimes punishable only by death. After you tried to raise arms against my father, exile would have been the lightest sentence possible. We did not send anyone after you."

Belderon's eyes were as hard as diamonds and glittered almost as colorlessly. "Your father knew what he had done. He did not want to face his guilt."

"It is _your _guilt you ran from!" Legolas spoke as if they were the only two people in the room, his attention completely focused on the Elf across from him. But even those standing beside Legolas were more affected by the fast, deadly stream of words; they had not known that Legolas had spent nights thinking of exactly such things in the silence of his inner turmoil. "Why did you wait so long, Belderon? You could have sent Sariel after me a hundred years ago, or even earlier! She was ready then, but you did not act."

"Sariel was never ready. She failed when I sent her."

"Is that truly the reason, Belderon, or do you continue to lie to yourself?" He calmly took another two steps forward, the very picture of a youth defying his respected elder. "You waited and occupied yourself with lesser concerns, conducting your experiments with captured orcs to breed them into a stronger, more vicious variant. You already had the one weapon you needed, but you kept waiting. Why?"

"She was not ready."

"You watched her grow up," Legolas said with a sick smile on his face. They were almost close enough now to be within reach of their swords, but the real duel had begun long ago. "You said you watched me grow up. You watched Rhiannon too, or did you forget? You were enchanted by her voice, nearly more proud of her songs than my father. You encouraged your son to court her and when she showed no interest, he feared to disappoint you."

"It was all an act with her," Belderon snarled. "Your sister was a lying, conceited whore. She provoked Faledin—"

"So your son killed her in self-defense," Legolas finished for him. "Is that what you tell yourself, Belderon? Is that the history you have created to ward off your doubts? But I have been thinking. Rhiannon was not the only girl you watched grow up, was she?"

For once, Belderon had no response. His white-knuckled grip on the handle of his sword was the only sign that the words reached him.

Legolas took advantage of the silence to continue his relentless analysis. He spoke with more conviction than anger and was somehow more threatening for it. "You replaced her with Sariel, did you not? Your _nightingale_, another gifted singer. You took Sariel's father from her and put yourself in what should have been his place. And when it came time to use her as you had planned, you hesitated."

"Do you call this hesitation?" Belderon finally said, slowly lowering his sword so that the tip pointed to where Sariel lay, still unconscious. Vanidar and Arwen were beside her. "You are wrong. You think I took on the role of a father to her? Try the word _lover_."

They had not known. Her injuries were extensive and Belderon had intervened before anyone had had a chance to examine her thoroughly. Arwen's face was dead white; out of all of them, only she had known about Lessena and had guessed that Sariel faced newer, more insidious dangers when she had left them all.

Belderon was watching them closely, drinking in their reactions as if he could somehow feed off the raw emotions. "She cried out your name, Legolas. _Prince _of Mirkwood that you are, you were nowhere near when she needed you most." He turned to Lianderthral next. "And you, her teacher. She prayed for you to save her when the burning began. I thought it was appropriate to turn the elements against her. Even with her newfound skills, she is weak."

"How?" Lianderthral whispered, tears in his eyes. "She had control."

Belderon obliged with an answer. "Any use of power, any true effort to do something, requires concentration. She was too terrified to focus." He shrugged. "My pet had…other things on her mind."

Before he had even finished speaking, Lianderthral enveloped him in white fire, burning so bright and hot that the companions had to shield their eyes from the light. But despite being cloaked in flames, Belderon remained unharmed. "Your powers cannot touch me, Elf lord, just as the wizard's cannot and just as hers would not have, even if she could control them." He deliberately paused. "Or would it enrage you more knowing that Sariel offered herself to me of her own free will?"

There was a moment of stunned silence before the denials burst forth.

"No!" "You lie!" There was an underlying horror mingled with their desperate rejection of what he said.

"Why are you so sure?" Belderon questioned. "Do you truly know her so well? You can ask her for the truth yourself, if she survives. She made a new contract with me: her total surrender in exchange for your safety."

"Why would she do that?" The words were torn from Legolas and earned him a mocking smile.

"It does seem as if she acted all in vain, does it not? You are here before me. Should you attack, I will defend myself." He looked around the semicircle surrounding him, pausing to stare at Lianderthral before he turned to assess Legolas's tense form. "She did it because she believed you would not come."

Legolas had heard others speak of battle rage before and had never understood what they had meant. Now he heard Lianderthral's roar of fury and knew the other Elf was right beside him, but the sound seemed distant. His sword was weightless in his hand. He was numb all over and yet burning, too—more aware of everything around him than he had ever been. Every detail was cast in high relief and his senses were so sharp as to be almost be painful—everything focused down to the one standing before him, the one goading his anger. His vision seemed to be filtered by a mindless red haze and yet he saw more clearly than he ever had, images assailing his mind's eye, flashing before him. One moment he was staring at Belderon, the next he was throwing himself forward, lunging toward Belderon with all his strength—

Arwen was already there, across the room in a blink of an eye, short sword in hand—

Vanidar was attacking with sword in right hand and dagger in left, his swift movements forming blurred silver arcs through the air, and Legolas's sword was descending—

The sound was jarring, but it was the physical impact of his weapon against Belderon's that traveled up from Legolas's wrist to his arm, shuddering through his body. The hilt in his hand burned for a moment and his fingers went nerveless, but Belderon was already whirling away, retreating from Vanidar even as he attacked Arwen, and then Gandalf was there as well, using staff and sword together. All along the blade blue flames burned and dripped like living fire, the cold steel gleaming white in the presence of evil.

It was completely madness, chaos. Their weapons sparked when it they collided with Belderon's sword, the charge that traveled back was painful, temporarily numbing. He was unbelievably fast, more agile than any of them, a shadow moving through their circle, attacking just as much as he defended himself.

After the initial rush, it became clear that as outnumbered as he was, Belderon was holding his own. The only one who had even drawn blood from him was Kaeloriel, the wolf using all his innate abilities, fangs slicing into Belderon's leg in a movement that would have brought down running prey.

Belderon turned toward Gandalf, a touch slower from the unexpected attack by the wolf, and Lianderthral seized the opening. He drew one of his daggers and waited for the right moment, when Legolas and Gandalf had drawn back out of the way. The gleam of silver shone where it was balanced lightly in his hands for a fraction of an instant, before it slipped through the air, too swift to see even for Elvish eyes except as a single long, glittering silver thread. The dagger unerringly struck the Elf and it should have at least caused him to falter. There was a pause in the fighting as they awaited the outcome, hardly able to believe that defeat would be so soon and so easy.

There was a steely sound and the dagger fell to the ground, tearing open Belderon's tunic—and exposing the radiant silver of _mithril_. The dwarves called it true-silver and the lustrous armor, crafted by Círdan and the Elven-smiths who dwelt in the Grey Havens, was worth a king's ransom. But they had no time to marvel or wonder how he had come to possess the chain link shirt. Belderon drew a long-knife from his belt, the clear shape of the blade giving away what it was—yet another rarity, more priceless than _mithril_. He held a blade of the finest Elven-glass, unbreakable and harder that almost all other substances.

He did not tire. If anything, Belderon seemed to grow stronger and more deadly as they continued to fight, the companions beginning to err when he did not. He was the one who had trained Sariel to kill Elves, who thoroughly knew all the weaknesses of his own race and knew the styles with which they fought. It was not long before the first of them was seriously wounded.

Bit by bit, they fell back, his defense turning ever more aggressive, and it was incredible that he could even continue, five against a mere one. Blood dripped onto the stone floor and soaked in, none of the dark stains originating from their enemy.

They fought unceasingly for what seemed to be a very long time, until the battlelust began to fade and breaths began to come in difficult gasps, until the strength was sapped from their bodies, and they began to despair.

* * *

It was the sound of steel clashing with steel that woke her, taking her from a frantic dream of a pass assassination where she had almost failed. The names and some of the faces of those that had died by her hand swam in her mind and she struggled to open her eyes. She was lying on her side, face pressed into a pillow.

The shapes around her seemed to be distorted and unreal, the colors bleeding into one another in a terrifying away. She gasped for air as fear seized her and her vision began to cloud with black dotted with starbursts of light. Gritting her teeth—the side of her face hurt, she could taste blood in her mouth—she waited it out until her vision focus. Everything hurt but not quite immediately, as if she had been given anesthesia. There was also a familiar feeling that she had always hated—the restrictive tightness of bandages that told her of injuries that would prevent her swift movement.

They were like dancers, the shapes before her, a kind of grace in their movements as they advanced and retreated, blocked and attacked. Slowly she made out Gandalf, Lianderthral, Legolas, Arwen, Vanidar—they were all there, fighting.

She felt sick. For a moment she was sure it was another dream, a hallucination. But the vision before her did not change and she struggled to sit up.

_They came. The fools_. Yet tears stung her eyes until she swallowed them all down in favor of emotions that would give her strength. The anger and adrenaline rushing through her veins helped her stand, though no one had noticed her yet. Belderon was the first to do so, suddenly leaving off his attack on Gandalf. He blocked and looked up, his eyes meeting hers across the room, and Sariel almost passed out again from the flood of emotions the look evoked.

He broke through the semicircle that surrounded him, running directly toward her, Legolas behind him. Sariel stared at the sword coming toward her, lips parted but completely defenseless.

There was a blur of movement that she caught out of the corner of her eye at the same time, Legolas reaching over his shoulder for something that protruded and formed a cross-shape behind him. Then Sariel turned her head slightly to look and it was hurtling through the air to spear the bed about a foot away from where she was—her sword.

_Aurielen_. Her hands instinctively reached out to wrap around its thick hilt, designed for a male's grip, for her father rather than her. She barely had time to raise it up to fend off Belderon's first blow and she staggered as the force crashed down on the sword and vibrated up her arm. The _mithril _she glimpsed explained why Legolas had not tried to throw the sword directly at Belderon.

The others watched, aghast, as Belderon brought blow after blow against her, Sariel blocking just enough and just in time, again and again. How long could she hold up? That she was fast enough even now to react to him, when they all had so much difficulty, was astounding enough. The speed at which they dueled each other made the others hesitant to close in lest they distract Sariel and allow Belderon to strike the final blow.

They fought in the same deadly style, almost mirrors, perfectly suited to each other. Sariel should have been at a great disadvantage because of her injuries, but Belderon had at least been tired by the fight he had waged before.

In this moment, Sariel felt almost nothing, and what little pain did break through only spurred her own. The swords emitted a metallic sibilance as steel kissed steel, not in a block but the result of a feint, just one part of their tireless dance. She had been waiting for this moment for so long, her chance to win her freedom and avenge her father. She had dreamed of it, but had never thought it would occur under such circumstances.

The companions were reduced to mere observers, enthralled by the allure of the fighters' inherent grace and the eerie seduction in a swordfight well fought in the midst of savagery. They could not have been involved. This was another level altogether. The shock of contact with Belderon's weapon seemed not to affect Sariel, or at least not as much—perhaps through practice she had become accustomed to it.

Their movements remained fluid although they could see that new blood stained through Sariel's bandages. There were so many feints and darts, the two changing direction, circling, changing methods in movements nearly too quick to follow, a conglomeration of styles made into one seamless whole. One fell back before a new onslaught, and the other pressed forward only to retreat again. They seemed evenly matched, almost a perfect pair—but how long could it last?

She was wounded and bleeding while he was wearing impenetrable _mithril_. She welded a sword while he was armed with his special weapon as well as his long-knife of Elven-glass. They were afraid to step in and afraid to look away.

In her dreams she had always fought with anger and hate, the need to revenge her father overriding any concern for her life. Now it was happening, and she thought of nothing at all, her body attacking and defending by memory, while thoughts passed through her mind as if water through a sieve. Light and color and love, the sharp scent of trampled grass, autumn leaves falling from bare branches. There were all manners of strange things in her mind and none of them involved Belderon, though he was right in front of her.

Not so, for him. He seemed focused on her, relentless in his concentration to the point that he seemed to forget that the others still waited.

"Sariel," he hissed. "You would break our agreement so easily?"

"You will kill them," she said back hoarsely, the first words they heard from her. Neither of them slowed for even a moment. "It is you who have broken faith."

She did not know it, but her words echoed what Legolas had said earlier. She saw the rage burn in Belderon's eyes and took advantage of his emotional state to cut into his forearm. He cursed, the blood and cut muscle making his long-knife slip from his hand. It was nearly enough. Sariel closed in on him and his guard had dropped; the _mithril _could only protect what it covered. It was an unusual movement, reminiscent of a swallow's flight, full of turns and dips.

Inches of steel plunged into his stomach at an angle, slipping up under the _mithril _chain link shirt, underneath his rib cage and toward his heart. Sariel let out a small cry at the effort. The nearly three foot long blade slid in as she staggered to her knees, the angle requiring tremendous strength.

Belderon gasped, eyes wide. Warm blood gushed onto Sariel's hand and stung. She let go of the sword's hilt, looking at Belderon as he sunk to his knees, on level with her. Blood ran down the side of his mouth.

The training that she had undergone from Belderon himself took over and she reached back out, curling her fingers around the slippery hilt. She drew out the sword again, the entire length of the steel crimson-washed. The metal rang when she dropped it to the stone floor.

Belderon stared at her as a bubble of blood formed on his lips, his skin suddenly pale. The others came forward now as Sariel swayed slightly on her knees, Vanidar hastily dropping his weapons to grasp her shoulders with both hands so she would not fall.

"It's done," she whispered unbelievingly as she watched the light dim in Belderon's eyes.

His laughter seemed to rend the very air of the room. It was so unexpected and so fantastic that Sariel scrambled away, still on hands and knees, almost slipping in the blood that pooled on the floor.

His blood-smeared mouth opened and his lips moved. "Foolish pet, do you believe it will be so easy? I resurrected Aragorn. I have mastered even life and death and yet you still thought that I would leave myself unguarded?"

"Impossible," she gasped. "It cannot be true…"

The grin on Belderon's face was reminiscent of what she had seen on Aragorn's, as if it were an expression that frozen on a corpse during _rigor mortis_, which had now passed. "They call us immortal because age does not affect the Elves. But they mistake the meaning of the world immortal, which indicates something that cannot be killed. I am _truly _immortal!"

Belderon reached for his sword, easily picking it up again. Legolas saw his intention too late and darted forward, meaning to turn him away, but Belderon was simply too fast. Sariel stumbled back and one misstep, a foot caught on the unevenness in the stone floor beneath, doomed her.

She stumbled and he was on her, sword upraised and already beginning its descent. Her breath caught in her throat as terror paralyzed her, but then he _hesitated_. She could see it in his colorless eyes, the sudden attention he gave not to her, but to something else.

Kaeloriel leapt through all the others, his momentum carrying him impossibly far as if he were flying across the room. The wolf crashed into Belderon and bore the Elf to the floor. The surprise attack was vicious and intense. In one moment Sariel believed her life would end and in the next, she caught the gleam of Kaeloriel's fangs as they moved to tear the Elf's throat out.

But Belderon rolled out from underneath the wolf even while his hand groped for his long-knife and found it. He stabbed into the dark fur with the clear glass even as Lianderthral stepped forward and slit his throat—to no effect.

He was dead, but still alive. They could not defeat such a foe.

"You have spilled blood and with it my power wakens, even if the blood is my own," Belderon said triumphantly, although something in his eyes had changed, as if he had finally descended into madness.

Blood poured out of Kaeloriel's open mouth, welled out of the wound in his dark fur and elsewhere, as if his very pelt was bleeding. Belderon seemed to draw it from every inch of the black wolf, cuts suddenly appearing through the fur, deep enough to show torn muscle and tendon.

Something else was happening, too. The wolf had begun to glow—or radiate—a kind of soft white light so that all Sariel could see was the dark silhouette of the wolf's crumpled form, black against white in a confusing array of color and light. Even as her mind tried to make sense of what she was seeing, the light exploded in a dazzle so intense that Sariel and the others all cried out, instinctively turning their faces away. She could _feel _it too, the intense heat from that direction.

What was happening?

Belderon looked at the wolf and for the first time since they encountered him, real fear filled his bloodshot and madness-glazed eyes.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Chapters 14, 15, and 16 were all written at the same time. When they were first posted, I adamantly kept the rating of this story as PG-13. As I was writing these few chapters, I wondered whether I should raise the rating of the story to an R. Most people see the label _PG-13 _and it has no special significance for them, no real meaning. My friend, however, has a different story and has asked me to share it. Please humor me and read on, even though this is most likely the longest author's note that will be in this story.

When my friend was thirteen, something happened to her that changed her life. She had considered herself to be a very ordinary person. She had a great family, lived in a crime-free neighborhood, and had an enviable life. She lived nearly completely without fear for her safety. She could not imagine the kinds of things she read about happening to her, but one day she was raped by a stranger, who was never caught. Her life was so changed by this that she and her family later moved to another state.

To her, _PG-13_ has quite a different meaning and she has often spoken out against censorship because of what she has experienced. While she knows that it is natural for parents to try to shield their children from the darker side of reality, she also believes that it is a misguided effort. It is the trust in me that she has shown that convinced me that it would be wrong to change the rating. If such a thing can happen to her at thirteen, then people that age should be aware of it, or at least given the option. I changed this to R because I didn't want someone to delete this. But remember, please, that some people aren't so lucky to live sheltered childhoods, and in my opinion, it is wrong to look away from what is difficult to witness simply in order to protect yourself.

It is not ever my intent to make Sariel's character coincide with what happened to my friend and the circumstances are almost entirely different. Nor was it my intention to make anyone read something they find distasteful. You might ask, why have this happen to the heroine at all, why turn the story so dark? My desire is to show the courage of those who struggle, as survivors of what are incomprehensible crimes to the majority of us, to rebuild their lives and carry on. I wanted to speak for those who endure their experiences with grace, who face difficult choices but still make them as best as they can, without betraying their sense of self or their beliefs in what is right.

Of course it would be easier to write a typical "happily-ever-after" story. Many stories that are meaningless can be very enjoyable, in the way that passing fashions are popular but forgotten the next year. But I think I would be betraying myself to turn this story into such an easy dichotomy of good and evil. In the real world, it is not always easy to distinguish right from wrong or villains from heroes. Sariel's story is fundamentally about some of these questions and there may never be complete answers. But it is still important, I think, to ask them.

— ElveNDestiNy

**Please review!**

_Finalized October 2009 _


	16. Avatar

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

Special note to the hardcore purists, canonites, etc.: It's pretty odd that you made it so far if you're as much of a purist as you're proclaiming to be, but in any case, this is the only warning I'll give. If you believe that anything non-canonical will send me to some sort of Tolkien hell, please just go read something else.

**Author's Note**: I originally wrote chapters 14, 15, and 16 over three days around my fourteenth birthday. I always felt like I didn't explain what happens here very well in the context of the overall story, so I changed this chapter a lot in the final revision. Hopefully this clarifies some of the larger motifs, such as the role of music in connecting the various characters, from Legolas's sister to Sariel.

You don't need to know much about _The Silmarillion_, although it would probably help since many of the ideas here came from _**Ainulindalë**_. However, since Sariel has been out of contact with her own race and lacks a sense of her own history or the history of Middle-Earth, she is completely atypical in this way. Just as she doesn't need to know the context to know what's happening, the readers really don't, either. Sariel's fight against Belderon is purely personal for her, whereas for someone like Gandalf (as one of the Istari), it represents a greater and ongoing historical struggle. Similarly, her murder of other Elves is an issue of personal morality for her, whereas in Tolkien's cosmic scheme, kinslaying was actually the Elves' equivalent of man's original sin, in that they fell to evil and were expelled from paradise. Oh, and if you want to get technical, Belethil is a Maia.

Translations:

_Belethil_: divine radiance (Quenya)

_Manë ovantië otorno_: Welcome, sworn brother/associate (Q)

_Morgoth: _black enemy (Sindarin)

_Bauglir:_ tyrant, oppressor (S)

******Chapter 16: Avatar**

****_She was walking through a vibrant green forest and the leaves were turning golden as she watched. She knew Lothlórien but was unfamiliar with this place. Yet the trees were the same as those she remembered from childhood, the great mallorn-trees that her family had built their lives around and upon. Their beautiful transformation only captivated the eye more. She touched the golden leaves in wonder and then drew back suddenly in horror as the leaf shriveled black and fell._

_Then she saw that the shimmering gold was golden hair, veiling the face of an Elf that stood before her. She reached out again to brush the silken strands to the side, tucking it behind a delicately pointed ear in order to reveal who it was. -Legolas?- she asked, but the person gave no reply. She tried again, confused. They were so similar in appearance and she was determined not to make a mistake, because they were completely different people to her. –Is it you, Lianderthral?-_

_And yet only silence answered her. She felt frustrated, reaching out to touch him again. Then it seemed to her as if he smiled at her and everything became all right. His name hovered somewhere in her mind as though she had recognized him, although it was frustratingly just out of the reach of her tongue. Despite being unable to say it, she relaxed in the familiarity of his presence._

_-You came for me,- she sighed. She moved closer to hug him and let herself rest her head against his shoulder momentarily, closing her eyes at the feeling of warmth and safety. Now that he was with her, she did not have to fear the trees that surrounded them. –Help me, dear one. The trees are dying and I do not know why. They were so beautiful and all their leaves were turning to gold, so I wanted to touch them. But now I have killed them.-_

_-They say that trees turn to gold when death is coming.-_

_She looked at the Elf again but could not be sure of his identity, anxiety rising in her again over the mystery. She reached out to touch the indistinct line of his face, thinking that perhaps by touch she would be able to identify him. But as soon as she caressed bare skin with her hands, it became dark, just as the leaves had turned black. To her horror, she found that she was touching the face of a blackened, charred corpse._

_She stumbled back with a cry but somehow knew that it was her father. Around her the golden leaves continued to turn black and the memories she had buried for so long rose to overwhelm her… She was running as fast as she could, her breaths coming in painful gasps, and all around her the forest was burning. She was leaving her home because there would be nothing left but ashes and she had just seen her father killed before her._

_Then she ran straight into another memory, where she was surrounded by those who were hurting her. The circle of trees around her burst into flame, causing the Elves of Lothlórien to cry out in fear and astonishment. She cowered before them all, the throbbing pain of the lashes across her back fueling her desperation and also the fire… _

_Sariel gasped and she was back in the silent forest now, kneeling alone before the trees. One by one the golden leaves fell, drifting through the air and stirred up by the faint breeze that she could just feel across her sensitive throat. Around her they turned black and when they blew further away, tumbling against the sturdy trunks of the trees, blemishes began in the bark._

_It was a spot of sickness that began sapping away the trees' vitality. The black spread up the branches, the color of corruption. _

_Desperately she huddled into herself, but the leaves continue to rot. She was doing this, even though she did not want to. She was that black mark, infecting the Elves with her willingness to kill her own kind, the blood she had spilled and the death she brought to everything around her._

_-I have killed so many…- she whispered, and knew there was no redemption she could find for all the lives she had taken. Once her world had been corrupted, it could not become pure again. Here, in this forest, she could not escape what she had become. But there was still one life that she wanted to end, the life of the one who had started it all. She could not give up until it was done. _

_There was no longer any gold anywhere. Twisted black shapes surrounded her, a forest of dead trees, and she walked through the haze of grey, the taste of ashes so bitter on her tongue. _

* * *

"NO!" Sariel shrieked, the sudden cry bringing her suddenly back into herself. Released from the vision, she thought at first that she had been blinded because everything around her seemed to be a radiant white. As her sight cleared, she realized that the white came from the intense light emanating from something in front of her. There had been an explosion of light just before she had fallen unconscious and only now was it slowly beginning to fade. It was still impossible to face directly.

Sariel raised a hand to shield her eyes and only then did she notice that it was as if she had lost all her senses except for that of sight. She did not even have a sense of her own body. She could not feel herself breathing or hear her own heartbeat. She could see that she was sitting on the floor but she could not feel the stone beneath her. It was as though she had been freed from her body, and in some ways that was a relief. In her new state, she felt no pain. But did it mean that she had actually died?

She had to force herself to remain calm. Sariel slowly turned to look at the light, remembering that she had been saved because Kaeloriel had attacked Belderon. Her master could have killed her in that one moment, yet he had done the very thing he had trained Sariel not to do—he had hesitated. For some reason, he had feared the black wolf.

The light made her eyes start to tear and though she still looked, she could not comprehend what it was she saw. A quick glance at her other companions made her gasp in surprise, although it seemed to come out soundlessly, more of a disturbance contained within her mind than in the air of the room. Everything was like that; she could not hear any of the normal sounds she should have, but there was a faint music, something so beautiful that her heart swelled with the complex melody, only it, too, was impossible to comprehend. She only knew that it was ever-changing and perfect at the same time. At the same time this music invaded her mind, she stared into the light.

It was as if she saw two sides of a coin _at the same time, _something completely impossible. Turning slightly to her left, Sariel saw Arwen and at the same time she saw another Arwen, one that was only a dusky violet light—only that was not right either, because it was not only light, but a thousand other things at once. It was gracious and kind, beautiful but strong, as if the light had emotion and qualities. It was shining from the core of the being that was shaped like Arwen and had her face; for a moment it was as if Sariel saw two realities.

Sariel saw Arwen and saw _into_ her and saw _through_ her, all at once.

From the corner of her eye she could see another pillar of light, warm and silvery, like the palest sunlight, and as she turned toward it, Sariel knew that it was Vanidar. His features were indistinct in the illumination but what she could see was composed and there was a hint of serenity in the upward curve of his lips. His eyes were closed and she wondered if he, too, had been overwhelmed by this kind of sight. He burned with the strength of loyalty, a solid glow that was steady in its luminosity.

The double sight was too much to take in and Sariel closed her eyes with a soundless, bodiless cry. It was as if they were all spirits, their physical bodies housing that light. The world Sariel knew and understood was overlaid with some other kind of reality, one where only souls existed and constant music flowed in strange patterns, like a single river that somehow went in both directions.

She opened her eyes again to look toward Kaeloriel, knowing that the changes were somehow associated with him. When she had last seen the black wolf, he had been bleeding as if Belderon were trying to summon every drop of blood from his body. She expected to now see his lifeless body, but rather than the dark colors of blood or night, as Sariel had feared, there was only a pure, shining white.

While the others had shone with light, this new being _was _the light. It was out of the light that an image formed and solidified into a person. He—for the newcomer was clearly male, despite the raw beauty of his facial features—seemed to have shaped himself in the fashion of an Elf. She could make out the delicately tipped ears, half covered by an utterly straight, silken waterfall of silver-white hair. But despite his Elven appearance, something made Sariel unwilling to name him as such.

For a moment, she was too awed to do more than look. "By the light of Eärendil…" Her lips formed the words instinctively and although they were never uttered, she was suddenly struck by exactly what it was she had silently murmured in her surprise, the phrase she had inherited from her mother. But if _this _was like Eärendil's 'living light' that Elwing had bound on him, the light of the Simaril, she had never truly understood what it was until now.

The stranger knelt gracefully and she slowly began to see that he had been standing within the curve of a wolf's body. It was Kaeloriel, his golden eyes closed forever in death, swift and strong limbs now askew and motionless. After accompanying her so far for no reason she could fathom, he had defended her with his life. As Sariel looked on his lifeless form, grief swelled in her heart and caught in her throat. She had never expected that he, too, would die because of her.

And yet, when the being of light reached out to touch the dark fur, still wet with blood, she found that she no longer wanted to cry. She did not know how she knew, but she was certain that although the being she had known as Kaeloriel had been killed while wearing his mortal guise, his spirit somehow lived on. Such nobility and strength could not be so simply extinguished. She stubbornly clung to that belief. But what was this otherworldly being's connection to the wolf she had known?

The radiance had at last faded into a gentle glow, but she could not take her eyes off the stranger. She saw that his eyes were now closed, his features sublimely serene as he buried his hand deeply into the fur around the back of the wolf's neck. The upper half of his body was bare, although he was clothed in white fabric, threads so fine that they were nearly invisible. His skin was also a pearlescent white, as if he had taken moonlight and spun it into flesh.

Tearing her eyes away from the figure and the body of the wolf at his feet, Sariel looked at her companions. The Elves' faces reflected their wonder and uncertainty, but she saw only a profound respect in the wizard's expression, as though he knew exactly who it was—or perhaps, what it was—that he had met. There even seemed to be the slight gleam of tears in Gandalf's eyes as he walked forward with his hands outstretched.

"_Manë ovantië otorno_," he whispered, seeming to welcome his own kin. Without knowing why, Sariel felt her heart begin to pound in her chest as the possibilities ran through her mind. Was he an Elven-wizard, a being with strange powers, like herself and Lianderthral? Somehow, she suspected that he was something far more powerful. There was an ageless perfection to him that made him seem to be not of solid flesh and blood.

At the sound of the greeting, the stranger opened his eyes to reveal irises of a rich, deep brown. The slightly tilted eyes themselves were huge and as liquid as a deer's eyes were. But something in his expression reminded Sariel suddenly of Kaeloriel—some sharper angle of his face, or a hint of the feral beauty normally only to found in the wildest of animals. He seemed to be more predator than prey. He rose to his feet in one graceful, continuous motion and she saw that his hands were clean, although they should have been smeared with blood.

"_Belderon._" The voice of the creature was as devastating as the rest of him and Sariel held her breath, dizzy with the sudden swell of the music she heard but could not quite grasp in her mind. Like the lights she saw around the room, there were hidden depths in the sound that were overwhelming, patterns and harmonies that she could not comprehend.

"_So does even the eldest of the Children of Ilúvatar stray from the path of light. Even as the best of us wandered, the corruption remains, fed by pride and wrath._" Sariel saw the sorrow in his face, heard it like a gentle undercurrent in the flow of music, as if it were trying to resolve a dissonant chord.

"Who are you?" she whispered, but it was not the time or the place for her to speak. No one paid her words any attention, for the being before them still captivated their attention.

"_You once told yourself that you did it all to avenge your son, but the lust for power always becomes an obsession in itself, leading to nothing but destruction upon yourself and others."_

It seemed to her as though the music that filled her mine became even more complex, gaining a depth and beauty from the darker tones. Sariel shuddered, but it was not her body that reacted, but her soul. She looked at Belderon and saw it in his face: there was as much terror as wonder in his expression as he stood there, completely exposed before this stranger's judgment.

"_You have followed in the footsteps of evil, turning Elves and Men into soulless beings animated by your will. You torture and corrupt your kin until they are shadows of what they once were, trying to recreate the birth of the first Orcs. You turned to the darkness in your desire to gain power over life and death itself."_

There was no denial from Belderon; there could be none when he faced such a being. But the doubleness has faded a little from others as the music and light seemed to concentrate around Belderon and when Sariel looked at them, she knew they all understood this more than she did.

There was still hatred and defiance in Belderon's countenance, though the fear was just as great. He looked away from the being and turned to stare straight at Sariel with his mad eyes, pale hair loose around his shoulders and shadowing the clean lines of his face. He smiled, full of desperation, and Sariel recoiled.

"It is too late for you, my nightingale. Would you sing one last time for your master? It will be the song that unravels the fate of the Elves."

"No," she whispered, discovering her voice again, although the single word was weak. She looked toward the stranger for help, but he made no move to prevent Belderon from speaking to her. "You have been defeated, Belderon."

He looked at her with something like pity, although his sword was indeed lying useless on the ground. "Even my death will not stop it. I have set too many pieces in motion, including you, my pet. You will be the queen on my chessboard, and you will win me the war, in the end. I have become a part of you and you can never forget."

As he spoke, he advanced forward a few steps and Sariel stumbled back in panic, nearly falling before strong arms caught her from behind. She turned around briefly to see that it was Legolas who supported her, but she could not escape Belderon's too knowing stare.

Yet even as she watched, what looked like chains of light snaked up all around Belderon's body, until he seemed to be wrapped in a net of glowing silver. The light brightened and intensified; the murmur of music swelled in her ears until it felt as if it traveled through her body, pulsing in her blood with every heartbeat. For a moment, Sariel thought that listening to it would tear apart her mind. The chains turned a pale gold and then a pure white. The stranger also flared into light, his form dissolving into a radiance that seared her eyes.

She turned away and pressed her face into Legolas' shoulder, knowing that he was also closing his eyes against the onslaught. His arms came carefully around her and she suddenly realized that could _feel _them again, as if she had been dropped back into her own body. The pain had also returned, but she welcomed it because it told her she was alive.

"_Valar valuvar."_ It began as a statement and then the lilt of the stranger's voice turned it into a short melody, and then it grew into a song. The words gained strength and power with each repetition, weaving into the music and echoing around the room.

Sariel heard Gandalf repeat it and then the other Elves joined in, creating a low, murmuring refrain, inevitable and unceasing. They did not always use the same words, but she sensed that what was uttered always came from the same intent and belief.

"The will of the Valar be done," Legolas whispered into her ear, translating for her, and then she felt his chest vibrate as he raised his voice with theirs, singing it and sustaining the notes. They all seemed to know what to do and the sound rose and fell, a chorus as chilling as the howling of a wolf pack. Wounds and weapons were forgotten, yet a fierce light shone in each person's eyes, and somehow the song was more savage than the fighting that had preceded it.

As Sariel listened, eyes closed, she knew they were waiting for her to add one more melody to the song. But did she have the courage to join in with her own notes? Her hands found the ones holding her and she gripped his fingers hard, drawing her strength from Legolas. This was not the battle that she had imagined, but it was just as powerful, a song of unmaking and creation. It was something even she, assassin of her own kind, could believe in—a song to heal the corruption that had spread in the world. She opened her mouth and let her voice slip in with the rest.

The words the others sang were unfamiliar to her, so she let her voice soar up without meaning, until the notes fell into familiar phrases. She had never sung like this before, as if her soul were circling up into the air with the sounds from her throat. At the same time, it seemed like some of the others were not so much singing with voices as with their souls. Was this even music? Was it a kind of magic?

It did not matter to her. These were lyrics she had heard from childhood, but it seemed as if she had never listened to the underlying message of hope. _Aurë entuluva…day shall come again…_

* * *

Sariel floated to back to consciousness as if she had been in a dream state, but this was different from her previous blackout. Everything remained the same and she could even tell that she was still standing. It was impossible for her to know how long it had taken for her to return to herself, but she dimly remembered what had caused it. The power of the music had overcome her, sweeping her along into all its glorious complexity until she had lost all sense of self. It had been unlike anything she had ever experienced. Now that it had faded, she almost thought it was a product of her imagination. The traces of music lingered so faintly in her mind that she was almost unaware of it again, like a song that she could not quite hear.

It hurt to open her gritty eyes but she forced them open, wincing at the light. The first thing that she saw was Belderon was lying motionless on the floor, only a few feet away from her. Just by looking at him, she knew with a grim certainty that he was dead and truly lifeless this time. There were no mortal wounds on him and in fact, various weapons lay scattered on the floor, including her sword and his. The _mithril_ that he wore as armor glittered brightly, the only thing about him that still seemed to have a hint of life. She looked at him and expected to feel something, _anything_, for what she had waited for nearly her entire life.

Belderon was dead. Sariel repeated it to herself in her mind, but there was no sense of elation, or even satisfaction. No feeling of fulfillment from the completion of her vengeance. She simply felt numb as she stood there looking at his body, and in the back of her mind, she realized that she almost wished that he had died by her hand, under her sword. He had not deserved such a painless death.

It had all been so sudden and she did not even know what had really killed him. She had imagined this day so many times, and every scenario that had played out in her mind had involved the use of the skills she had learned from him. For years, she had believed that she could poison him, until she realized that he was immune to all poisons. Sometimes she thought it would be like an assassination, a silent dagger to the heart when she caught him unawares.

This, what had really happened, was nearly unfathomable. Sariel stood over Belderon and tried to comprehend that it was all over. Was it not enough that he was dead and she was still alive, which was a situation that had been beyond all her hopes?

She may have been fixated by the sight of Belderon's body, but the others were all looking at the stranger who had actually taken his life. Gandalf stepped forward and his head bowed slightly as the stranger put his hand on the wizard's shoulder. Then the wizard straightened again, looking as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. A look passed between the two, one of deep understanding.

Sariel stirred in Legolas's arms and he obligingly let her go to stand on her own. In the heat of the moment, it had been easy to ignore her body, but the pain now was almost overwhelming. She had been trained to bear pain, but this was beyond nearly anything she had experienced previously. Yet as excruciating as it was, the pain was simply a distraction. She did not understand what had happened, and from the expressions on her companions' faces, they did not, either.

"_I am Belethil, follower of the Valar._" He said his name breathily, as if the words were notes from a flute. It sounded nothing like normal speech, but at the sound of it, calmness stole over Sariel and even eased her physical discomfort. _"It is my task to combat the strife and sorrow that has come into this world through the actions of the one that you know as Morgoth Bauglir."_

"Kaeloriel," Sariel said without thinking, for she had just realized that the wolf's body had utterly disappeared as if he had never even existed. At the sudden silence, she realized that she had interrupted Belethil. The others looked aghast at her sign of disrespect, but suddenly she did not care. She _had_ to know—had Belethil been the wolf all along? Had he been the one who had been a shadow by her side as she searched for Lianderthral's antidote, the one who had saved her from Belderon's undoubtedly fatal blow?

Even if Belethil _was_ Kaeloriel and had been him all along, Sariel realized that she had lost her one actual friend. She had been able to trust Kaeloriel completely because he had been different from all the others, because he had been wild. She had never felt as if he had judged her for her past or had ulterior motives. As a wolf, he would not have cared if she had killed before. She had known that he would not evaluate the state of her soul for innocence or corruption.

Most of the people around her were here for different reasons—Lianderthral because she needed a teacher, Vanidar from some remnant of the friendship they had shared in childhood, and Arwen because of Aragorn. Gimli and Boromir had come also for the sake of friendship, although their loyalties were not to her, but to their other companions and to Legolas, who no doubt had his own reasons for following her.

But who, or what, was she in the eyes of someone like Gandalf? The wizard had come to fight Belderon and also because he did not trust her powers. He feared that she would become a destructive force if left untrained, but Sariel was under no impression that Gandalf had come to save _her_. As Sariel met Belethil's gaze without the deference that the others showed, she realized that she was angry—and she was angry because she felt betrayed.

Kaeloriel had asked nothing in return for his help. The black wolf had followed her by his own will, or so she had believed. He had accepted her for what she was, unfalteringly, once he had decided, and that was something no one else had ever given her. She did not want to learn now that the wolf she had implicitly trusted was actually just another person manipulating her in the name of some higher cause she knew nothing about.

Yet the way Belethil was looking at her drained away her anger and left her only with a confused swirl of emotions. Part of her somehow wanted his approval, and another part of her violently rejected that longing and resented that he stirred such feelings in her.

He met her tear-bright eyes and his voice, when he spoke, was softer, less overwhelming. "I was the wolf you knew, and I _am_ Kaeloriel, still."

"I never knew you," she said to him with some defiance, although Legolas reached out to catch her arm, clearly trying to convey that she should not speak so to one of the lesser Valar. But the title meant little to her, although she knew the word translated to _power_. Her companions looked at the newcomer with awe and respect, but all she knew was that he had been deceiving them all along.

There was a hint of silent amusement in his eyes, liquid brown rather than fierce gold, and she could not stand his resemblance to the wolf who had always lolled his tongue out at her in a silent laugh. Sariel looked down and missed his slight motion. A slender, gentle hand reached out and touched her bruised cheek lightly, moving down to cup her chin, raising it so that she had to look up. Sariel resisted mutely but she held still and allowed his touch, although she wanted to jerk away to show her disdain.

"I would heal you if I could," he told her, and she knew he meant more than the physical wounds that she had suffered. She could tell that he was making an effort to sound natural, but that he needed to do so at all only served to emphasize the difference between them. "Yet here, I am but an Elf, like you."

But they all knew what he truly was, despite his humble words. She should have been relieved that Kaeloriel was still alive, but Sariel could not help but wish that he had remained the black wolf that she knew, rather than this stranger she could not trust.

"I fear I do not even have the strength to remain in this guise for long," he continued. "The blood magic that Belderon used to strip away my chosen form was very powerful."

"Will you leave us now that you have fulfilled your duty?" she asked, unsure what she even wanted. His intervention had saved their lives, but nothing had gone as she expected. "Aragorn still rides to Mirkwood with Belderon's orcs. He was right. His death changes little."

Belethil smiled, but it was not an expression of happiness. "My duty is one that does not end. I cannot stay with you, but you have other guides more capable than I." He looked across the room to Gandalf, whose expression remained purposefully unreadable.

Sariel stared at him, knowing that if he had been only a little earlier, everything would have been different. At the same time, how could she do anything but thank him? Everything that had happened had come about because she had lost her courage and her self-belief. Belderon had played her for a fool, and even after so long with him, she had gone into his trap not only willingly, but knowing exactly what awaited her. There was no one to blame but herself.

Even as Belethil spoke, he seemed to grow weary. Before her eyes, he seemed to become indistinct, as if he were physically fading. Interpreting her expression of alarm correctly, he briefly tilted his head in acknowledgement. "Your strength of will is your greatest weapon, Sariel, and nothing can take it away from you. Remember this and you will not go astray."

He turned swiftly toward the door and she abruptly realized that he was truly going to walk out of the room and disappear from their lives as suddenly as he had appeared.

"Wait, Belethil…" She wanted to stop him. She called out his name with a tone of desperation, but he did not even look back. Legolas's hand on her arm, gentle as it was, compelled her to stay. No one made the slightest move to stop him or to speak. Sariel watched bitterly as he walked away from them, leaving them with nearly as big of a mess as before. Why had he even come? What judgment had he rendered upon Belderon, who lay there more at peace in his death than her own mother, whom he had murdered?

"Sariel," Legolas said, drawing her attention to him. He was looking at her as if he were afraid she were about to go mad, and she could only imagine how she looked, eyes wild and body so brutalized. "The will of the Valar may be done, but we are still here."

He tried to move toward her, evidently intending to draw her into a comforting embrace, but she backed away. Surprised flickered over his face as he stopped and then an expression that she did not want to interpret settled onto his features. She stood very still to prevent herself from shivering and crossed her arms in front of herself, looking down.

"Belderon has set too much into motion," she said softly back to him, eyes closing involuntarily for a moment as black spots exploded in her vision, as if they were staining the floor. She fought the urge to sink down to her knees and knew that her injuries were finally catching up to her. The last of the music she faintly heard in her mind had faded away when Belethil left her line of sight and suddenly all she could really feel was exhaustion and pain. She tried to move and found the room spinning around her, her legs rapidly losing all of their strength.

Legolas was at her side in a moment but without knowing exactly how, she still found herself on the floor and lying along her side. Her entire back was throbbing with pain and when she looked up through the dark haze of her vision, she could just make out someone was looming over her. The figure stirring up fears that she had not know she had and her heart began to pound, making it difficult for her to catch her breath. Instinctively she tried to rise and when hands pushed her back down, she struggled against them and cried out in agony.

"Sariel." It was Legolas's voice, but she could not see where he was. "You must calm down. You will hurt yourself."

Other hands held her head and something cool was pressed to her forehead. She vaguely recognized Arwen and heard her murmur something in a low voice, but could not make out the words. Was this it? Belderon was dead, so she could go, too, if she wanted. She was so tired, but someone took her hand in theirs and squeezed hard, the pressure somehow keeping her awake for a few moments longer.

Someone else was giving her a very bitter liquid to drink and forcing her to swallow, even though she did not want to. She knew it was a drug and it did make everything hurt less but it also made it even more impossible for her to think. There were things she still had to do and they were running out of time, but lethargy stole over her limbs as her muscles relaxed from the painkiller.

The last thing she remembered was Legolas leaning over her, so close that he seemed to be about to kiss her. Instead, he was looking straight into her eyes and the sapphire-colored depths of his own were dark with worry.

* * *

He left her. There was nothing he wanted to do less, but Legolas forced himself to leave Sariel while he went to find Lessena, Gimli, and Boromir. Gandalf had been guiding Lianderthral through some complex process in which he used his skills to ease Sariel's pain. In her dangerous state, they could not give her anesthetic drugs for fear that her body would give up entirely. Since both Vanidar and Arwen were more skilled than he when it came to healing, he knew logically that it would be best for her if he were the one to go. It was still almost impossible for him to leave her side when she was so weak, so close to death. At the same time, he found it becoming impossible for him to stay.

Sariel had sacrificed everything she could in order to bring her sister out and to save them, so he could do nothing less for her. Once some of the blood had been cleaned away, they had all seen how Belderon had sadistically reopened the scars that Sariel had developed from her punishment in Lothlórien. Every raised welt on the smooth skin of her back, already ugly to look at, had been methodically sliced open again by a very sharp knife. The injuries had just healed, but now the wounds were twice as deep as before, made not by the whip but by the precision of a blade.

Despite her many injuries, it was the blood loss that most endangered her life. Legolas was there to help and watch as Arwen stitched up the wounds on her back. Vanidar helped and Lianderthral evidently chased away the pain, but the entire process took a very long time. Arwen was quietly efficient, professional even when working on her friend's torn flesh, but there were many, many cuts to sew.

The one small blessing was that Sariel was unconscious for most of it, because it was difficult enough for them as it was. They had no choice but to invade her privacy, for there was no way that Arwen could take care of her alone. They cut away her blood-soaked dress until she was completely bare before them, still on her side because it was impossible to lay her on her back. But her nakedness, too, was just another violation on top of the ones that she had already suffered, and knowing her personal strength and dignity made it doubly hard to see her now as a victim. They tried to cover her with a sheet but there were too many places on her body that needed their attention, so it hid very little. There were too many bruises on her thighs to count and it seemed like they could never wash away all the blood from her body. Slowly, the marks of Belderon's slow torture were revealed.

He stayed for as long as he could, but he was almost glad to leave by the end because he did not know how much more he could bear, silently trembling with rage at the story each cut and bruise had told him. Bile rose in his throat as he stared down at the bite marks that Belderon had left on her breasts—Legolas had to turn away, struggling to compose himself, and he was not the only one so affected.

He wanted to ask her why, but Belderon had already told them why. But he could not understand how she could passively take so much, and he could not imagine the level of despair that she must have felt, to knowingly subject herself to this. He should have protected her, but instead, he had failed her, and with every physical wound on her body, he was reminded of that failure. When she woke, he knew she would no longer be the same, no matter how strong she was. How could anyone, after what she had experienced?

He had almost lost it earlier when he had seen how crudely Belderon had marked her on nearly every inch of her body. Vanidar and Arwen had been working on her back and he had been cleansing her of blood with a damp cloth. He had folded back the sheet covering her a little at a time, wiping away the dried blood and cleaning the wounds so they could be treated. But his trembling hands had frozen when they came to the clear evidence of her rape and it was Arwen who took the cloth from him and told him to go. He had not been able to breath, could not see for the tears blinding him, and there was a sickness that roiled in his heart as much as it did in his stomach. So he had left.

He knew he could never forget. He could not even face her, knowing what she had suffered because of him. They were not even sure that she would survive. He could not bear to leave her and he could not bear to stay and look at her.

Just outside of Belderon's stone fortress, Legolas let go of all his control for a moment and sank to the ground against the outer wall, head bowed against his knees. His shoulders jerked hard and he bit back a cry as he gave himself those few minutes before he would have to resume the struggle to hold himself together. The hot tears silently sliding down his face were bitter rather than salty. He nearly gagged on the taste of them because they carried a trace of the coppery sweetness of blood, undoubtedly smeared onto his face at some point in their frantic efforts to keep her alive.

It was her blood, he knew. Burying his face in his hands, Legolas listened to his heartbeat and wondered if hers would still be beating when he returned. He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and locked everything away.

Then he rose and went to bring Sariel's sister to her.

* * *

He did not have a clear memory of how he had made his way through the forest, but it did not seem long before he had found the companions they had left behind. It seemed unbelievable that so much had happened only hours ago. Sariel's disappearance, Lessena's arrival—it all blurred into one long nightmare.

"Gimli," Legolas called, seeing the Dwarf twist around to find him. Evidently the camp had not been threatened, because it was exactly where they had left it. The Dwarf had clearly appointed himself as the sentry, although there was no need in this case. Arod was already whickering a low greeting to his rider, but Legolas barely spared him a glance.

"Legolas. You have come." There was no mistaking the relief in the Dwarf's gruff voice and Legolas looked at him uneasily, knowing that there could not be good news. Gimli himself looked long and hard at him for a moment, no doubt reading the signs of grief and strain in his features, but they exchanged no other words.

Instead, the Dwarf immediately led him straight to the fire and before Legolas could question why they had even risked making one, he saw the prone figure besides the flames. Boromir was kneeling next to Lessena and the sight, so similar to what he had just left behind, caused Legolas's hear to clench with sudden fear.

"What is it?" he questioned.

Gimli shook his head. "She complained that she was tired and we thought nothing of it. But soon it began to seem as if there was some other sickness she was suffering from, because she shivered and cried."

"She was still fine an hour ago," Boromir told him. "But then we could not wake her, and there was nothing we could do."

Legolas crouched down next to Lessena and his disbelieving eyes examined her, already suspecting what Gimli confirmed.

"I am sorry, Legolas." The Dwarf's voice was calm, but pained. "We do not know why, but her spirit has passed."

He could see that Lessena's chest did not rise and fall with breath. Her eyes were open and staring, her face far too similar to Sariel's. Legolas rose and took a few steps back from her body, unable to look away from her serene features. She had seemed so resolute when he had seen her last, determined to force him to listen to the message that she had brought. She had angered and then stunned him when she had spoken steadily of a little brown sparrow, all without knowing what memories she evoked with those simple words.

"How long?" he asked tersely.

Boromir shook his head. "Less than an hour ago. We did all that we could, Legolas. She seemed to be at peace in the end."

"If you have come, then Belderon has been killed," Gimli said somberly. "We must take her body back with us. The others may know why her spirit so suddenly gave up, without any reason we could find."

Legolas was not listening. He stared down at Lessena, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The flames of the fire still made her golden hair shine and if not for her eyes, she could have looked as though she were sleeping. Her lips were curved slightly, as if she had welcomed her death with a smile. From this distance, his keen eyesight could still pick out the details of that delicate face so much like hers and the pale, luminescent skin that belonged to many Elves but was identical to her sister's.

"She did it all for nothing," he said disbelievingly, not noticing or caring that Gimli and Boromir were looking at him with concern. "She had already lost her mother. She wanted to save us, to save her sister. But it was all for _nothing_."

"Lessena is dead, Legolas," Gimli said again, unsure whether he was trying to deny it. He had seen the anguish in his friend, but it could not have gone completely badly if he had returned to them. "Surely Sariel still lives?"

Legolas looked down at Lessena's bright blue eyes, slightly clouded in death. He reached out to close them and then his hand lingered on her cheek, still slightly warm. Unlike the Man and the Dwarf, he could guess the cause of Lessena's death. His voice was bleak when he finally answered, a question directed to himself as much as to them. "Will she still want to?"

* * *

A/N: **Please review **whether you're a new or an old reader. I can't emphasize enough how much your feedback means to me. Also, although this is supposed to be the finalized version, I have a feeling there are still many editing mistakes, so please comment if you find any. I can't catch everything, so even if it's just a simple typo, point it out to me.

The idea that dreaming of golden trees is an omen of death is actually from ancient India and Lórien is one of the lords of the Valar who was master of dreams and visions. Also, Lessena's death has a perfectly canonical reason. My original challenge was that if you reviewed and guessed correctly, then the next chapter would be dedicated to you.

_Finalized November 2009_


	17. Presentiment

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

A/N: To clear up some confusion, Arwen's eyes are grey in this story, because even though she had black hair and _blue _eyes in the movies, she had _'clear grey eyes'_ in the novels. The overall explanation of Lessena's death is paraphrased from Tolkien's essay titled "Laws and Customs of the Eldar," published in _Morgoth's Ring, History of Middle-Earth_, footnote five.

This chapter is dedicated to _Inweofnargothrond_, _Pallus1_, and _SilverElf_ for answering the challenge.

**Chapter 17: Presentiment **

The light of day, even the kind that came from the setting sun, should have brought back a sense of reality to Legolas. It only seemed to make all that had happened even more unbelievable. The softer colors of dusk did little to alleviate the harsh winter landscape around them and nightfall brought with it a deep chill. The three of them, Elf, Dwarf, and Man, watched the last rays of light fall across Lessena's lifeless skin before they covered it with cloth.

It took some time to determine how they would return back to Belderon's fortress, for there were eight horses with them, in addition to all of the companions' belongings. They were mostly silent throughout their preparations for travel, in part because of the grim reality of the body that never left their line of sight. Throughout it all, Legolas was aware that Gimli and Boromir wanted to ask him what had happened, but he did not have the heart to speak of it, not without prompting, and they were reluctant to do so quite yet. Although he knew it was cruel to keep them waiting, he remained silent. After all, delaying the news until he could compose himself enough to deliver it would not change anything.

In the end, he only told them briefly that Belderon had indeed been killed and that Sariel was injured, although the others had all escaped relatively unharmed. He did not know how to even describe the manner of Belderon's death, and the transformation of Kaeloriel into one of the most powerful beings he had met was a topic he did not broach at all. The others present at that time had all been Elves, with the exception of Gandalf, himself a powerful wizard. It was true that Gimli, for one, had come a long way since the early days of the Fellowship, when he had believed that Galadriel was a witch. Still, explaining what exactly had taken place was a task that was beyond Legolas and he would leave it for Gandalf.

They had fashioned a crude hammock for Lessena's body, slung between Sariel's horse, Myste, and Arod. Since her body was stiff with death, it was impossible for them to bring her back any other way. He forced himself to personally carry Lessena and arrange her, trying not to shudder at her cooled flesh or look at her face, so similar in features to her sister's. He was familiar with death and had certainly dealt out much of it over the years, but rarely had it been his task to care for the dead. Though he, like others of his race, did not fear ghosts or other things touched with death, Legolas could not forget how he had mistaken her for her sister when they had first met. He could easily have been holding someone else in his arms and covering her face.

Lessena had been free for such a pitifully brief time. It had been near dawn when he had met her and now night was settling over the land. Had this been the only day since her capture so many years ago that she had spent outside, under the sun, away from her captor? He had spent nearly the entire day inside Belderon's fortress, so that it almost seemed as if everything had happened during one continuous, never-ending night. Lessena was a stranger to him and they had only exchanged a few words during their one meeting, and yet her mere existence had changed his so much.

"Tell me only this, Legolas," Gimli said gruffly, just before they mounted, their unusual burden causing the horses some distress. "How badly has she been hurt?"

"She is as well as can be expected, given what happened to her," was the unsatisfactory reply the Dwarf received. Given the fact that Belderon was a sadistic maniac who stopped at nothing, this did not quite reassure the Dwarf. He had never seen the Elf so troubled, except in the aftermath of Sariel's assassination attempt.

The Dwarf hesitated, but he had just spent a very long night reduced to waiting, as the womenfolk usually did during wartime. He much preferred to be fighting and his lack of knowledge now seemed intolerable. "What happened, Legolas?"

His friend refused to answer, but the look on Legolas's features made Gimli mutter a curse. But the words would not come to his Elven friend's tongue, as if saying them would make it all more real.

Sariel could have died. Legolas knew it, tried to find some sort of comfort in it, that they had not simply found her body the same way that he had found Lessena's. But he could not tell the Dwarf how Belderon had broken Sariel's will, because to do so would be to admit that it had happened. But what was there to admit? He had seen the evidence before his own eyes, the marks on her body—

Bile rose in Legolas's throat and he clenched his jaw against it. Sariel was not just a victim. He could not think of her that way, could not let her think of _herself_ that way, not if she were going to live. She had to find the strength within herself to continue, even if it was the same kind of strength that had made her into an assassin in the first place—a will to live that was so strong, it blurred the lines between right and wrong. _What is this but another piece of her dark past?_ Legolas reasoned. _She can do anything, she can get past anything. She has to believe that and I will believe it, too, for her._

She had to have a reason to remain in the world where she had been hurt so badly and stripped down to the most fragile parts of her spirit. He had to make sure that she was stronger than her sister, whose spirit had already left behind its empty physical body. He had to make sure that she was stronger than his own sister, that she would not become another broken female body at his feet, a voice extinguished forever—it could not happen again, not like this. _I will not fail her_.

* * *

Arwen was waiting for them when Legolas and the others stopped at the outer stone walls of Belderon's fortress, the body-shaped bundle slung between the horses immediately telling her that something was wrong. Legolas was thankful that it was she who had been keeping watch over the area for danger, because Arwen took one look at him and asked no questions.

"Tell all the others to come," he said to her as soon as he had dismounted, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. He let her hand clasp his shoulder momentarily, the brief touch conveying a deep compassion in the way that only Arwen's could. Penetrating grey eyes the color of a rainy day scanned him from head to toe for a moment.

"Walk with me," she said, and Legolas followed, leaving Gimli and Boromir to take care of the horses and their burden. As they strode swiftly through the deserted halls, Legolas forced himself to ask.

"Is she awake?"

"No. Not yet. Legolas…"

He gave a short nod, telling her that he had asked for more than one reason. "Perhaps that is for the better."

"You return without her," Arwen ventured in a low voice, dreading the answer. They had almost reached the room in which all the companions had gathered and she reached out to open the door.

Legolas walked in, immediately the center of attention. They were scattered around the room and his eyes went instinctively to Lianderthral, who sat with Vanidar in the corner, next to the bed where Sariel lay sleeping.

"Have you brought Lessena back?" Gandalf questioned, almost as if he knew the answer.

"I have brought back what I could…" Legolas started, wasting no time. There was no way to say it gently. Slightly behind him, Arwen's eyes widened in shock, an expression of horror crossing her face. She had seen the covered bundle; her mind made the connection. "Lessena is dead. Her spirit had already passed by the time I arrived."

There was a moment of grim silence and before anyone could say a word, Boromir and Gimli came in, the man carefully bearing Lessena's body in his arms. The covering over her face had loosened and as she was laid on the ground, it unveiled her face.

"So this has come to pass," Arwen said with anguish. "If we had reached her a little earlier, perhaps her spirit would not have pushed so far."

Lianderthral shook his head, still sitting beside Sariel's bed. "That she and her mother could be kept in captivity for so many hundreds of years was already difficult to believe. They did not give into the darkness or go mad. They sustained their hope through all the years, through Sariel. It was the only way they could have survived. It is unlikely that they even knew what it was that Sariel did to buy their lives."

"I do not understand," Boromir interjected, speaking for himself and Gimli, and perhaps even Gandalf, though the wizard's expression was inscrutable. "You speak as if this is no surprise, yet Lessena died very suddenly. Gimli and I were keeping watch over her and all seemed well. She simply slept, and then we realized that she had taken her last breath."

"Then at least it was peaceful," Vanidar said with sorrow. He looked at Arwen, as did the others.

"What happened, then?" Gimli questioned. There was a moment when he exchanged glances with Boromir and it was as if all those present in the room were made aware of the distance between their races again: Elf, Dwarf, wizard, Man. Such was the varied nature of the band that had come to Sariel and Lessena's aid, or to defeat Belderon.

Arwen spoke in a low tone after a moment. "Among the Elves…" Her voice was unsteady, but looking at his close friend, suddenly Legolas knew exactly what she was speaking of, and could not believe he had ever overlooked the knowledge in his mind. Such crimes were rare, the fate of the victims left in even rarer stories… He had wondered, but he had been primarily worried about Sariel, and he had not extended a similar consideration to her sister. Yet from the looks on Lianderthral and Vanidar's faces, they all knew.

"Among the Elves?" prompted Boromir, startling them out of a moment of solidarity.

It was only right that Arwen was the one to tell this tale, so the others let her answer the impatient query. "Among us, there are no records of any that took another by force, save for the stories of Celebrían and Aredhel. There is also the story of Rhiannon, although it is largely unspoken of, out of respect to King Thranduil and his royal family. And now…there is Lessena and Sariel, as well. It is not our way to force others to acts of lust."

Her voice faltered as she said her mother's name and the dishonor she suffered at the hands of the orcs. Her brothers Elladan and Elrohir had sworn an oath to ride against evil for all the days to come, a vow born not of vengeance, but of their sorrow. While Boromir and Gimli caught her hesitation, their attention was focused on what Legolas had not directly told them before: the inclusion of Sariel's name.

"Pressing unwanted attentions upon one another is wholly against our nature, and one so forced will reject bodily life and pass to Mandos," Vanidar explained, voice just as soft as Arwen's. "Sometimes the Men call us immortal, and it is true that our lives are extraordinarily long, compared to that of the mortal span. But it is not strictly true, for we may perish in many ways still. Unlike Men we do not fear death, nor those associated with death, such as the spirits and ghosts of Men. But there are other things that harm us."

"You are saying that she chose to die," Boromir said. "That she did not fear death and found her freedom in it, as she could not while she was alive."

"But I have heard passing mentions of the Lady Celebrían, and she did not do the same," Gimli questioned.

"It takes great strength of spirit to will ourselves to live after such a thing," Arwen said painfully, when the others left it for her to answer.

"So Lessena did not have this strength?"

"She had only Sariel left. All but twenty years of her life she had spent as slave to Belderon. What joy could she have found during that time? It was not enough," explained Arwen. "The race of Men may speak of dying of a broken heart, but for the Elves, such words are for more than a minstrel's song."

Gandalf spoke then, startling them all, since he had been silent until that moment. "Lessena had only just gained her freedom. Why would she choose to let everything go at such a time?"

Vanidar spoke before Arwen could, though the wizard had not missed the brief shadow of guilt in the Evenstar's usually clear gaze. "There was nothing to live for, do you not see? There was nothing to tie her to this world, save her sister, who was nearly a stranger to her. Perhaps it was a relief, whether or not she knew how many lives Sariel had taken for the sake of keeping her and their mother alive. Why would she _not_ want to pass on? Celebrían was different; she had a purpose and she had love."

He would have continued, but subsided at a look from Arwen, daughter of Elrond—and of Celebrían, though she was rarely called the latter.

"Lessena was with child," she admitted, grey eyes glassy with tears. She ignored their shock. "She was carrying Aragorn's child. Belderon told Sariel before she left us, and she told me. It was one of the reasons why she chose to surrender herself to him. He had twice created life from death—when he took Aragorn from death, and in this child, created from an act of violence and terror. It would have been an abomination beyond anything else Belderon had done before."

Her voice was thick as she finally answered the unspoken side of Gandalf's question. "Lessena was never truly free at all, not even after she escaped, and not even after Belderon had died. She was trapped by her own body."

"Then…what of Sariel?" Gimli muttered to himself, before he looked at the others. "Will she also choose the same?"

"Sariel may not have known that this has been the fate of Elves who have suffered what she has," Arwen replied. "But Lessena's death must be explained to her, and then she will understand. It is a choice that she will need to make again and again, a question she will have to ask herself. What is the purpose of her continued existence? Why is she living?"

* * *

Sariel woke up again with a pounding headache but diligently managed to force herself to ignore the pain. Within this last half year it almost seemed like all she had felt was pain, since she had been receiving one wound after another before any had completely healed. Everything she had gone through had broken her down little by little, until she was mentally accustomed to the pain even if her body still protested against what had been inflicted upon her.

It helped to methodically categorize her smallest injuries, dismissing them as bearable. She could ignore the rest. Her bottom lip was scabbed over from where it had been cut. Her hand wandered up to touch her cheek and she winced at the brush of her fingers against her flesh, knowing there was probably a spectacular bruise forming. She tried not to recall how Arwen had tended to the long cuts on her back, patiently stitching again what had previously just been healing.

Her cautious movements had alerted the others in the room and they stopped talking as they looked toward where she lay. Sariel heard her sister's name often, but her thoughts seemed to hover just beyond her reach, and she was not sure if there was some purpose to it, or why thinking of her sister seemed to bring her into some kind of personal panic.

"Eat first," said Vanidar, giving her a bit of freshly roasted meat sprinkled with salt and herbs. He spoke as if instructing a child. "Slowly. You must regain your strength."

She realized then that she was starving, having not eaten for over two days. The cool water that Vanidar offered her soothed her throat, though it tasted of blood when her tongue flickered over her split lip. The others ate as she did, since she had evidently woken just as they had finished preparing the meal. An uneasy silence hung over their meal and made her lose her appetite, even though she forced herself to continue eating, knowing her body needed it.

There was something wrong. When she looked at any of them, their gazes skittered away from hers, as if they were afraid that if they met her eyes, they would let her know some truth. Now that she was more alert, she could remember everything that had happened, and knew they all had seen exactly what Belderon had done to her. Even Legolas, she thought, knew. Even Lianderthral had witnessed her shame.

These were the thoughts that she had tried to keep away from herself. They threatened to make her sick now and she stopped eating, staring into space as she fought back against the overwhelming despair that washed over her. It made her feel so weak. But she was all right. She clung to that knowledge with every bit of her heart.

She was alive and Belderon was dead. She would focus on that, instead. Yet Sariel was afraid that there was something even more to it than that, although she did not think that the tension she sensed was born of fear. No, there was something else. What could worry them so, without being a danger to them? She fought down her nerves and looked up just as Vanidar looked away from her. She stared at him silently until he was forced to return her attention.

"What has happened, Vanidar?" Somehow it was easier to speak to him, her friend from childhood, than to anyone else there. Sariel remembered the calm that she had seen in his face, when she had still been in the twilight state induced by Belethil. There had been a deep serenity in his other self, a solidity and strength to his very being.

Vanidar hesitated, looking around at the others' impassive faces. They would offer him no help; it was his situation to handle. "You should sleep some more first, Sariel. We will talk of it later."

Sariel took in the presence of the other companions, realizing that they were all there, even Gimli and Boromir, who had not been present when Kaeloriel—or Belethil, in his new form—had ended Belderon's life. Her breath caught when she recalled her surprise at seeing their appearance. She really had not believed that they would come. She had even sent Lessena to tell them to leave.

Immediately, Sariel knew what was wrong. "Where is she?" She stood up, even though the sudden motion nearly caused her to faint. Through the haze of black swirls across her vision, she felt Lianderthral's hand on her arm, steadying her. At his touch, she jerked her arm away from him without even consciously meaning to do so, her pulse pounding in her throat. No one had answered her. No one would even look at her.

"Where is my sister?" she demanded, her voice becoming shrill at the last word. "Did Lessena find you? If you are all here, then where is she?"

"Sariel—"

But she was beyond being calmed by soothing voices. "Take me to her."

"Sariel, we were all too late." It was Lianderthral who said it. At the words, she stopped her agitated movements, staring at him almost as if she could get him to take back the words.

But they could all tell, from the look on her face, that she had guessed the worst and now it had just been confirmed.

"She brought word to us and urged us to go as swiftly as possible to Mirkwood, to tell the Elves to prepare for battle," Arwen told her as gently as she could. "Instead, we chose to stay and fight Belderon directly. Lessena remained behind with Gimli and Boromir."

Sariel's eyes shone, but it seemed as if she could not even grieve. There was something bright and terrible in her expression "Where is she?"

Gimli and Boromir exchanged glances before leaving in order to bear Lessena's body into the room once again. At the sight of her sister's unmoving form, Sariel's complexion became such a stark white that Lianderthral reached out again, half expecting her to simply collapse. Beside her, Legolas did the same, his brows knit with worry. She evaded both of them, her eyes nearly black in the lighting of her room, just two dark smudges in her ghostly face.

Lessena was still wearing her sister's clothes. Sariel looked down, remembering how only hours ago, they had exchanged everything. She had been preparing herself to willingly accept Belderon's demands, believing that at last, her sister could go free. Instead, it had all been for nothing. There was no bravery in her actions, no heroism—it had all been merely foolish. In the end, the only freedom that her actions had given Lorianiel and Lessena had come in the form of death.

She did not say anything. She was afraid that if she opened her mouth, unintelligible sounds would come from her throat—that she would somehow scream and cry like an animal that had been caught in a trap and pushed past its limits. With awkward motions, Sariel forced her body off the edge of her bed and took the few steps she needed to in order to reach her sister. The effort of moving left her trying to catch her breath, or perhaps it was the difficulty of suppressing everything she was feeling.

She knelt next to Lessena and it came to her with a perfect clarity, when she tried to let go of her control and tenderly probe at her own feelings. She thought that perhaps only now had Belderon truly succeeded in making her into his perfect assassin. Up until now, she had taken his lessons to heart, but they had not come naturally to her. It had always taken some conscious effort on her part—she had repeated the rules to herself, reminders that emotion was unacceptable. Yet despite so many years of training, despite everything that she had done before, Belderon had only managed to change her outward behavior. She did not display emotion, did not let it affect her actions in any way. But that had not meant that she did not _feel _anything.

This time, she thought, her shoulders shaking a little with a bitter laugh that came out soundlessly, this time he had finally done it. She really could not feel anything. Only moments before she had been afraid that she would act like an animal, wild with uncontrollable grief. Only moments before that, she had wondered what they all thought of her, knowing that she had let Belderon use her body as he willed. Now, when Sariel really looked at her sister's closed eyes, the nearly serene expression on her face, there was nothing left for her to feel. There was only a hollow space.

Carefully, Sariel bent forward and picked up Lessena, slipping her arms behind her sister's back and under her knees. Lessena was utterly limp and oddly light, instead of feeling heavy the way that corpses, in Sariel's experience, usually felt. She found the strength to stand somehow, though she was far from steady on her feet.

Looking up from her sister's face, she found that everyone was watching her with apprehension, pity, and concern.

"What are you doing, Sariel?" It was Legolas who spoke, but out of all those gathered there, he had been the only one she had not actually looked at yet.

"Let us help," Gimli said, stepping forward to stand next to Legolas.

Silently Sariel shook her head in denial, even as her lips soundlessly formed a _no._ She backed away from them when they came closer to her, struggling to hold Lessena. She licked her dry lips, tasting again a coppery tang, and found that she could, indeed, speak.

"You cannot help. Do not come after me."

* * *

She did not really know how she had come all the way here, especially with Lessena in her arms. As weak as she was, she should not have been able to carry Lessena at all, let alone so far and in such a position.

Now Sariel lay on her back, feeling as if she were being cradled by the grass beneath her, and the dark, rich dirt beneath that. Lessena lay beside her, only a few inches away, as if they had both lain down to daydream while looking at the clouds above. There were trees all around them, but Sariel had chosen to lie in nearly the exact center of the natural clearing.

It was slightly damp and smelled comfortingly of earth. She should have been in terrible pain from lying on the wounds in her back, but the ground was somehow soft. She used to come here to think, although Belderon always punished her if she went missing, even when he knew that she would always come back because of her family.

She used to believe that this place was her secret, that even Belderon could not find the glade, if it did not want to be found. It was most likely fanciful wishing, but over the hundreds of years, he had never stepped foot in this place, so perhaps it was something more. Perhaps even back then, she had felt some affinity for the elements and had sensed that there was some magic in this small area. While the wilderness around Belderon's fortress was generally barren, the grass was verdant and lush here. Even now, when the rest of the land was frozen with winter, the grass grew as if it were perpetual spring in the mysterious clearing.

She wanted to sink into the earth and let it cover her. Sariel turned her head to the side, cheek pressing against the blades of grass, and remembered how she had always wanted to bring Lessena here, to see if she could get her sister to smile. She had almost never seen Lessena with a happy expression. The thought made something inside of her gather into a hard knot, but Sariel tried to let it go, imagining it dissipating from her, becoming part of the earth.

When she opened her eyes again, there was something there that had not been before. Alarmed enough to sit up, she realized that a fairly large, grey rock had somehow emerged between her and her sister. It was veined with streaks of white. She reached out to touch with something like awe, wondering if something in her had awakened the earth and brought this forth. Looking at its smooth, finely grained surface, Sariel knew what she had come here to do.

She would bury her sister with dignity, if the earth would accept her, here in this small glade. Lorianiel's body was lost to her forever and she could not imagine what Belderon had done after her mother had died. But she had finally brought Lessena here, although her sister would never have the chance to experience the peace that she herself found here, at least not in the way she imagined.

There _was _peace here, though, and hope. It was fitting. Sariel lay back down and closed her eyes, focusing on the hollowness that seemed to be inside of her—as if someone had scooped her out completely, heart and spirit and everything in between. She could not tell how long she remained like that, but if she had previously imagined herself sinking into the earth, now she thought of Lessena safe in its cocoon. After all, she no longer thought of the body beside her as her sister—not really, at least. It bore a resemblance to her, but Sariel knew that her sister's spirit had long since passed to the halls of Mandos, and what remained was simply a physical reminder.

Perhaps that was what had so terrified her when she had first seen Aragorn, after Belderon had resurrected him. Aragorn's spirit was still there, somewhere, trapped inside. He was not alive, yet he was not truly dead, either—he was more than just an animated corpse.

Sariel pushed her hand into the grass and felt the earth part beneath her palm, almost as if it loosened itself somehow, giving way to accept Lessena's body, and then falling back on top of it to cover her gently. It was difficult and yet it seemed right. When she was done, all that remained was a patch of newly turned earth, standing out starkly in contrast to the green of the grass that surrounded it. The grey rock that had emerged before marked the head of Lessena's grave, although it was flat enough that Sariel felt sure it would one day disappear under moss and grass as well.

It was done—all of it. Her mother, her sister, even Belderon. She was the only one left. The channeling of power through her injured body had weakened her so much that Sariel had no choice but to lay down on the grass again, her limbs feeling too heavy to even move. The grass and dirt beneath her seemed somehow cleaner than she was, as if she were polluting the secret glade that she had always considered one of her safe havens. Yet, at least for now, it seemed as if this place still welcomed her. For a moment, she wondered what it would be like if she simply gave up this existence and let go. She wondered if her body, too, would sink into the earth, even as her spirit flew up and away, finally freed. But what was the price of freedom? For those like her, could it only truly be gained in death?

Even in her numb state, Sariel still heard the soft sound of approaching footsteps long before the person could actually come close to her. She also knew who it was by the way he walked, for after travelling with him for so long, she was familiar with the small, intimate signs of Lianderthral's presence.

There were no tears to wipe away from her cheeks, but her hands came up to her face self-consciously even so. She winced as her fingertips brushed against bruised and swollen flesh and then again when she touched her lightly bandaged throat, where Belderon had left delicate gashes, like an obscene necklace specially designed for her.

"Sariel?" she heard him ask hesitantly, clearly unsure of his welcome. Given the way she had left them, she guessed that the companions had all been searching for her. Of course, if she did not want to be found, she would not have been. Even as hurt as she was, even when she could not think clearly, even bearing her sister's body, the least of her skills would allow her to disappear into the woods.

She wanted to know how he had found the glade but could not find the heart to actually ask. After all, this was simply another variation of all the things that had bound them together. He always somehow found out her secrets. Bit by bit, she gave her past over to him to safeguard for her. It was not so surprising that he would be part of this secret too, that the glade that only let her enter would somehow be open to him.

She sat up and hugged her knees to her, resting her arms on top of them and likewise, her chin on top of her arms. Without further words, Lianderthral took a seat next to her, adopting a similar position.

"I cannot cry for her," she found herself saying eventually, needing to explain. She wanted him to understand how hollow she was, how it was almost as if she was nonexistent. But what really came out in a rush of nearly angry words surprised her, though not Lianderthral. "After everything she did, she left me."

"It is all right, Sariel." Rather than trying to embrace her, he simply reached out and took her hand in his, uncurling her fist and looking so intently that Sariel looked as well, seeing only the dirt beneath her broken fingernails.

"She left me," she repeated, unable to voice the other part: that by leaving her, Lessena ensured that she would now be completely alone.

"It was the only way she could be free, in her mind," Lianderthral said without judgment. "You gave her that, Sariel."

"Gave her what? Death?" She could not keep the bitterness from her voice.

"You gave her a choice," he replied gravely. "She never thought she had one before. Belderon would not let her die. But you gave her a choice, so that she could choose whether to bear a child conceived in violence, or find her own freedom, in her own way."

When she lay down again, exhausted from letting go of her control enough so that she could channel the elements, Lianderthral did the same. She let him cradle her head against his shoulder while she curled into his side, instinctively seeking comfort in the contact. Despite everything she had gone through, she still somehow trusted him. It did not matter that he was male, or that she had not known him for as long as it felt as if she had. She had always had only herself to rely on but in so many ways, he had become her mentor and her friend, explaining to her so many things that she could not understand on her own.

So she could say these things to him, because she knew he would understand. She knew he would not judge her for being self-centered in the face of her sister's death, or for being unable to grieve for her the way she should have. Lessena meant a great deal to her, but sometimes it was not really Lessena that Sariel loved, but rather, the Lessena she had created in her mind. Not her imprisoned sister, but the _idea_ of a sister who loved her back, who shared something more than blood with her.

She confessed her selfishness in a small voice, glad that she was on her back and could not see his expression. "I did everything for them, so I would not be alone. But I am the only one left."

He shifted slightly on his side while his hand came up and stroked her hair gently, only kind intentions in his touch. "It is all right, Sariel. Whatever you may think, you are not alone. Even when you have no one else, I will always be here."

"But _will_ you?" she asked pathetically, hating her own childlike insecurity but needing the reassurance all the same. Maybe it was wrong of her, but maybe it was exactly what she wanted and needed. Some part of her was aware that he cared for her deeply, perhaps too much for his own good, but she did not want to question it too much.

He turned his head toward hers just as she looked at him. The green of his eyes had softened from its usual emerald color, until his irises almost exactly matched the fresh, vivid color of the grass around them. She could almost feel the vibrations in his chest as he replied. "You have me. You may doubt everything else, but do not doubt that."

Meeting Lianderthral's eyes, however briefly she could bear to do it, somehow eased the hollowness inside of her. He knew her better than she knew herself, she thought wonderingly. She listened to the sound of his slow, steady breaths and willed hers to match his. Her sister's body was buried under earth a few feet away from them and yet the thought did not provoke unease or sorrow. The numbness that she felt was also a kind of peace, Sariel realized, and with that last realization came a wave of fatigue that she could not fight.

"You are free of him, Sariel," Lianderthral said quietly and took the chain of her necklace in his hands. Before she realized what was happening, he had broken it. The silver hourglass pendant with its dark red liquid slipped loose and fell to the grass, half-hidden. She waited in fear for something to happen, and nothing did.

"You should rest more, Sariel. Remember, the power that you would use also uses you. Nothing comes without a cost." Hesitantly, he propped himself up on his elbow and leaned in.

Her breath caught in her throat, a tiny bubble of fear still making its presence known within her, but it burst when Lianderthral simply kissed her gently on the forehead. It was a small gesture and yet he clearly poured so much of himself into it, as if he were willing her to be strong. Sariel felt tears of emotional exhaustion finally well up beneath her closed eyelids at the unexpected, and somehow heartbreaking, tenderness. A few drops slid out and past her temples.

Her neck felt bare and there was no longer the cold reminder of the hourglass vial against her skin. It was safe here and Belderon no longer had any hold on her, save for what he had done to her thoughts and feelings. It was enough for her to surrender to her sleep. Her last thought was that having Lianderthral close by reminded her of the snowstorm during their journey. They had kept each other alive just by staying together.

* * *

She woke to the sound of her name being spoken, but not by Lianderthral. Alarm shot through her and she pulled away from Lianderthral's side, sitting up abruptly. The sudden movements made her body painfully remind her of its battered state, but all of Sariel's attention was on the other person who had found her secret grove. She found herself looking into a carefully blank face.

"We have been looking for you," Legolas said neutrally. His tone grew even flatter. "Although I see you have already been found."

Lianderthral had roused at the same time she had, so now the three of them regarded each other silently. It was quite eerily reminiscent of another scene, another time, when they had found each other in a similar way. Only this time, Legolas did not show any anger, if that was what he was feeling.

"I apologize for my intrusion," he said stiffly, but quite civilly, after a moment. His voice wavered a little on the last word, but that was all. Before either Sariel or Lianderthral could think of an appropriate response, he had turned his back on them. His long, rapid strides took him to the edge of the tiny grove in moments and then he disappeared from view all together.

Only then did Sariel find her voice, although there seemed to be nothing she could say. "I cannot mourn my sister any longer," she told Lianderthral at last. "Belderon is gone, but his orcs remain."

Lianderthral helped her up, for once seeming a little uneasy. He looked as if he wanted to say something to address Legolas's sudden appearance, but in the end, he let it go without comment. Sariel almost breathed a sigh of relief, although most likely that was exactly the reason why Lianderthral dropped it—he could sense her tension and did not wish to contribute to it.

"Yes, we should return to the others. They will want to set out as early as possible," he said almost just as dispassionately as Legolas. "It is a kingdom that is in danger, now."

_Kingdoms and hearts_, Sariel thought silently to herself. _Our individual lives, all entangled with fate. Nothing comes without cost._

Without saying anything else, they began to walk together back to where the companions, and one Elven prince, were waiting for them.

* * *

**A/N**: I love all things to do with angels and I came across something interesting. I thought I had created the name Sariel, but actually:

_Sariel was once an archangel, and one of the most holy of God's children before he fell. He was also a wielder of thunder and is said to torture those who believe they have dominion over nature. Some say he is the angel of death, for he is the one who retrieved the soul of Moses from Mount Sinai. He is also called by some a "prince of the presence" and an angel of healing. He is associated with the skies and instructs others on the phases of the Moon. He taught the oracles and prophets of mankind the secrets of presentiment. _

It's interesting that Sariel is an angel of death and a fallen angel. Anyway, the poem "Empty as am I" was written as a companion piece to this story, particularly for this moment in Sariel's life, and is from her point of view. You may be interested in reading it.

**Please review!**

_Final version, February 2010_


	18. Burning Spirit

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

**Chapter 18: Burning Spirit **

Ever since that fateful day she came into his life, everything had changed. Oh, Legolas knew it was unfair to lay the blame for it all at Sariel's feet. Even in his frustration, he had to acknowledge that she had only been the harbinger. It was her master and enslaver who had wrecked his world. It had initially seemed to him impossible that Belderon still lived, after his exile and supposed death. Now that Belderon truly had been killed, his legacy of destruction was just as hard to believe. One person alone had done all this, aided by patience and the passage of time. Legolas knew that it was not Sariel, yet it was she who occupied his thoughts the most.

In part to distract himself, Legolas began the tedious but necessary task of melting snow for water. It was the kind of frustrating, dull job that suited his current mood entirely. He scanned his surroundings as he waited, half lost in thought. The signs of spring's arrival were increasing, but there were sure to be further cold spells during which the streams would freeze over and frost would cover the new vegetation. As much as he hated acknowledging it, at least Belderon's fortress provided them shelter, though he could only imagine what memories haunted Sariel when she was within those oppressive walls. But surely Lianderthral, even at this moment, was watching over her, whispering words of comfort.

He could not seem to divert his attention away from thoughts of the two of them together, Sariel and Lianderthral. That the latter was so much like him in appearance only made it sting more, as if he were an alter ego usurping Legolas' place. Ever since the group had rejoined Sariel, Lianderthral had been a shadow at her side, assuming the position of her best friend, confidante, and teacher. She made it clear that she trusted Lianderthral more than anyone else. It was with heavy regret that Legolas remembered how Sariel had once directed those rare expressions of acceptance toward himself, when they had first met.

Now it was to Lianderthral that she looked and Legolas had not even the heart to begrudge her that. After all that she had been through, he considered it miracle enough that she was willing to turn to anyone for help. Yet Legolas also could not help but wish that he was a recipient of her trust as well, though he was well aware that he could only blame himself for the tension between them. He pushed her over the edge and Lianderthral was always there to catch her.

Legolas clenched his jaw against the images still fresh in his mind; it seemed like he would always find them together, Sariel held comfortably in Lianderthral's arms. Even remembering it sent a surge of mingled anger and guilt—anger that Sariel was capable of bringing his every primitive feeling to the surface, guilt that he could not seem to control his own emotions. Worse yet, he could no longer resent Lianderthral as he once had. There was nothing about the other Elf to warrant such childish behavior. Something between them had changed during that night when Lianderthral had lay dying, poisoned because he had defended Sariel from Belderon.

In a rare fit of pique, Legolas scooped up some snow and packed it into a tight snowball. When it was almost as solid as ice, he picked a target at random and threw with all his strength. The snow exploded against the trunk of a tree some distance away, causing more snow to slide off the branches above. He watched for a moment longer, but of course nothing else happened. Rather than providing a release for his frustrations, his display of temper only drove home how ridiculous he was acting. Exasperated, Legolas crouched down again and tilted the pot to pour the water into the empty canteen.

"We should be riding after the orcs," Gimli muttered right behind him, touching his shoulder.

Legolas recoiled in surprise and some of the hot water sloshed over the edge of the pot and onto his hand. With a hiss of pain, he dropped the pot, losing about half the water. Giving his friend a disgusted glare, the Elf plunged his hand into the snow.

"Thank you, Gimli," he said sourly, trying not to wince

"Why, what is the world coming to when an Elf does not notice a Dwarf walking up behind him?"

Legolas chose not to acknowledge the taunt. "Has Sariel returned?"

Gimli gave him an odd look at his brusque tone. Legolas had told them a little earlier that he had found Sariel and she was all right, although it was clear to the Dwarf from his actions since that he not told them all that had happened. It was not difficult to guess what was bothering his friend, as Sariel had returned with Lianderthral.

"She came back not long after you did, but she could barely walk on her own. Arwen and Vanidar are concerned about her injuries. They say that if we set out now, her condition will worsen." He waited for his friend to speak, but Legolas's mouth remained stubbornly set in a grim line. "Still, there is not much we can do. Your people are under threat from Belderon's army and we will likely set out before nightfall."

Faced with more silence, the Dwarf shifted uneasily. Legolas finished filling the canteen and finally looked back at his considerably shorter friend as if asking what he waiting for. "We should leave as soon as possible," he said shortly.

He missed Gimli's look of astonishment as he walked back into the fortress. The Dwarf hurried to catch up with his friend, nearly as concerned for Legolas as for Sariel. He had seen firsthand during times of war how torture sometimes affected the victim's loved ones just as much as the victims themselves, especially in cases when it was quite clear from the evidence on the body exactly what had been suffered.

Though the act of rape was nearly incomprehensible to his Elvish companions, it was not nearly so uncommon for other races. Indeed, there was a long tradition of it, intertwined with war. It was a way to break the spirit of the opposing forces, reducing their men to helpless witnesses as their wives and daughters were taken and humiliated, impregnated... According to some legends, the orcs themselves were a race that came from Elves that had been captured and tortured.

Gimli wanted to advise his friend to confess the feelings he was sure Legolas had, but the practical-minded Dwarf had always favored the blunt and straightforward. Perhaps it was just as well that Legolas did not, considering how it was no longer clear whether Sariel felt anything toward her one-time target for assassination. He supposed that the Elves must complicate things, as they always seemed to do no matter what the situation, strange folk that they were. For all that Legolas was his dear friend, he was no less peculiar than any of the others.

* * *

Sariel was more than a little relieved when she rejoined the others but found that Legolas had left the fortress. The cost of her wild exertions in carrying her sister's body so far and channeling the elements had caught up to her and if not for Lianderthral's presence, she would not have gone back directly. Given that Legolas had already found them, though, she did not want to give him more reason to think that she was delaying them all by indulging in her grief. Lessena was lost to her forever, but if they could not get word to Mirkwood in time, many more would die.

As it was, Sariel felt a stab of guilt when she saw that everyone had been ready and waiting. Arwen and Vanidar fussed over her, insisting on changing the dressing on her wounds in some instances, while she sat silently. Fatigue made her want to sleep, but they had to ride, so she did her best to suppress any outward signs of her weariness. Once Legolas had silently returned, Gimli following him and muttering strange grumblings under his breath, Gandalf briefly outlined the course of their journey.

"We will follow in the wake of Belderon's army for a while and gather what information we can. After that, we ride straight ward Rivendell with all haste. On horseback, with stops only to rest the horses, we can reach Imladris before the orcs do and give warning to Lord Elrond. From there, we will race toward Mirkwood and as such, hope to rally the Silvan Elves before Aragorn and the orcs arrive."

"My father will spare us some aid," Arwen said somberly. It went without saying that since Aragorn, her betrothed, led Belderon's army, Rivendell would have some interest in how this battle ended. Although there had been a long difference of opinion between Lord Elrond and King Thranduil, the Elves would help their own against such a foe. Sariel, too, had struck against those who called Imladris home, though Belderon's revenge had been subtle and they had not recognized the inexplicable deaths as his work, as none had known he still lived.

"If only the men of Gondor could fight for their king—" Boromir's words were cut off by a quelling look from Gandalf.

"The men of Gondor believe their king is dead, felled by trolls in the woods of Lothlórien. We have not the time to send messengers to them or to persuade them of the truth. Even if we could enlist their aid, what explanation would you give? How shall they fight, who shall they fight for, when Aragorn is the leader of the army they must stand against?"

Boromir's conviction and sincerity burned in his eyes. "Belderon's army of orcs threatens men as well as Elves and his betrothed, Aragorn's queen, still lives. Not all hope is lost for Aragorn. But even if the men of Gondor cannot fight, what of allies closer to Mirkwood?"

When Legolas stepped forward toward the center of their circle, his eyes were as brilliant—and as cold—as jewels. His face was devoid of the emotions that had so recently tormented him. At once, he seemed to be more powerful, _nobler_ somehow, and yet at the same time there was an aura of ruthlessness that caused more than one of his companions to shift uneasily on their feet. Boromir, pinned under that direct and unwavering gaze, suddenly felt helpless against this unveiled ferocity. The change in Legolas' demeanor reminded everyone in the room of his birthright; little wonder that they all respected him, thought he had never demanded recognition of his princely status from his friends.

"The race of Men spare no love for Elves, and those around Mirkwood's borders would sooner that our kingdom perish in its entirety," Legolas said, his words penetrating, uncompromising. "Once, we traded with the Men and maintained friendly relations with them. But as Sauron's shadow grew darker and ever longer, they feared us as much as any of the other creatures that served him—the orcs, the goblins, the trolls, the spiders. To them now, my father's kingdom is not Eryn Lasgalen, but still _Taur e-Ndaedelos_."

One day, Sariel was reminded, Legolas could rule that very kingdom. The blood of a Sindarin prince ran in his veins and she should not forget. Should his father fall in battle or come to some mishap, the Silvan Elves would look to Legolas as their leader.

"Taur-" Gimli inquired hesitantly, taken aback by his friend's harsh criticism.

"The forest of great fear," Legolas translated curtly.

"_Sîdh_, Legolas Thranduilion. Worry for your kin sharpens your tongue," Gandalf rebuked, though he may have been the only one to look upon the fierce line of Legolas' brow without wonder. He had known the measure of this prince long before the Fellowship was formed; it was partly why Legolas had been one of the Nine, rather than an Elven lord such as Glorfindel.

_Peace_, Arwen thought, echoing Gandalf in her mind. She watched but kept silent, wondering. She had been friends with Legolas since childhood and knew him best, perhaps, out of all the others in the room. Even she had rarely glimpsed this side of his nature, though she had always known it was there. With Legolas, the gift of command was never abused. He embodied the calm and remote intensity characteristic of their race and comparable to the currents deep below the surface of the sea. Legolas did not have the same presence as Aragorn, whose sovereign nature quelled his opponents' resolve. However, none of the Elvish leaders could be compared to the kings of Me; their races were too different in this regard.

As the tension in the room eased, the companions resumed their discussion, still led by Gandalf. The next matter of most concern was Sariel's condition, for they could all tell by now that she remained sitting only through great effort. She had begun the meeting standing, but sometime during the exchanges before, had chosen a seat at a nearby table, and they had somehow all migrated toward her until she was once more part of the circle.

"Sariel is not strong enough to ride alone," Lianderthral said, clearly suggesting that he would ride with her and look after her. He gallantly refrained from remarking on the obvious: she was suffering still from constant blood loss and that accounted only for the physical injuries alone. The haunted look in her eyes and the slight vacancy of her expression suggested that she had withdrawn her attention from them to some degree.

"Sariel, would you let me ride with you?"

She looked up with a start, the room uncomfortably silent after that unsubtle question, reminding them all of her renewed aversion to physical contact with others. No one was looking at Legolas, whose face betrayed no emotion, except her. Lianderthral's eyes were on her face, sincere in his offer. Although the medicines that Vanidar and Arwen had fed her should have made her less observant, Sariel felt as if she were hypersensitive instead, brittle somehow, and the slightest wrong thing might cause her to break.

Why was she looking at him, what was she searching for in his face? Once again, Lianderthral was asserting his right to care for her, and she wanted that…or did she? Sariel could not tell anymore and objects around the room, strange things, seemed to begin to fly up and swirl around her confusingly. It was not a good sign, but she did not know how to reply when Lianderthral repeated his question. She dropped her gaze to her clasped hands, trying to stop them from trembling. Her hands had always, _always_ been steady, no matter what task she was carrying out with them.

Did Legolas not care? He could have offered to take her, but did not. He could also have objected, but did not. And when she and Lianderthral were in the grove, she had felt such overwhelming guilt when Legolas had found them together—a guilt that she had not felt the first time, when she had slept next to Lianderthral for warmth during the snowstorm. She felt as if she had betrayed some sort of understanding between them, even though there was no such understanding now and there never had been one. But he had not reacted at all, unlike that time, when he had clearly been angry.

Perhaps what had happened had really broken any ties that might have existed between them. She could understand that. Legolas knew that she had gone to Belderon, had consented, even though at the same time, she had not. Sariel did not know what she wanted, but she did know that she could not bear it if Legolas were to only treat her with this cold indifference from now on. She could understand if he no longer wanted anything at all to do with her, the Elf that had tried to assassinate him, who had nearly succeeded, and who now brought war to his home. She could understand, but somehow it made her feel dirtier and more broken than even the nightmares that existed beneath her closed eyelids.

Her breaths were coming fast and shallow now as she tried to ward off the fear, but it was no use, and already dizzy from pain and feeling sick from the strong medicine that she had taken, Sariel felt as though she might dissolve. Lianderthral would see right through her, would know exactly how she felt. She could not guard herself when she was in such a state and she was terrified of losing all control.

Blindly, she looked for another face and met the grey eyes of the Evenstar. But there was too much between them right now, Aragorn and Lessena and the child that never was. Arwen had to be strong as they rode with all intention to kill her beloved; Sariel would only be a weight dragging her down.

It was Vanidar who broke the desperate tableau, which seemed to have lasted for a very long time in Sariel's mind but most likely had existed for only a few moments.

"Sariel needs a healer. I will ride with her on Myste," he said in his unassuming voice. Despite the soft way he had spoken, it was not quite a request. Sariel looked at him in abject relief and then he was already helping her up, supporting most of her weight even though there was hardly a place on her body that he could touch that would not hurt her.

Somehow then they were outside and Myste was before the two of them, looking impossibly tall. Vanidar boosted her up into the saddle—she had never needed help before—and swung himself up gracefully behind her, careful not to disturb her injuries.

Thus did the companions start their frantic journey to Rivendell, riding night and day towards the ruins of Arnor, the Lost Realm. Arwen looked constantly to the east with worry in her eyes for her love Aragorn. Legolas looked as well, with fear for his kin.

* * *

She kept sliding in and out of consciousness, disorienting fragments of reality combining with dreams saturated with fear. In the brief periods of lucidity, she tried to anchor herself to the world by listening to her companions, for they never spoke in the scenes created by her wandering mind. The words themselves were useless. She could not make out any meaning from them, but focused instead on the soothing rise and fall of voices. Lianderthral's words were soft, with a slightly husky inflection and laughter or joy in it as a constant and pleasant undercurrent. Too melodious to be a male voice, in all honesty, and yet his was simply so beautiful. She remembered that he could not sing and wondered again at the contradiction.

Then there was the bright thread of Legolas's voice drawing her back to the world—smoother, clearer and more precise than anyone else's. The timbre and tone were musical as well, his way of giving the words emphasis. The Elvish language did not make his words beautiful; he made the Elvish what it was, the soft syllables and accents like the wind delicately stirring the leaves on trees.

Gandalf gave his orders with dignity, his words somehow infused with a sense of age and intelligence that others could not fully understand. Arwen's inquires, directed at Vanidar and always about her condition, seemed to Sariel like a silk thread that bound the companions together. It was an unfathomable melding of compassion and strength, and it was these qualities of grace, rather than Arwen's features, which inspired others to speak of her incomparable beauty.

Sariel spent much of the time either sleeping or in a semi-aware state. She had vague impressions of seeing mountains of broken rough stone, once fortresses of Arnor, but beyond that she paid little attention to the land they passed through. They did not cease their travel when dusk came, because the moon was full and cast a silver-bright light that almost painfully illuminated the trail of destruction that the orcs had left behind.

She dreamed, and in her dreams a monster stalked her. She ran, but the farther she ran, the more tired she became, and finally it was clear that she could not outrun the monster. So then she turned around to confront it, only to find that the monster was herself.

Shocked, she stood there without defending herself as her own dagger, the one that she had used to take so many other lives, rose up before her, clutched in her own hand. With one swift motion, it was buried deep into her own chest, slicing upward at an angle to pierce her heart while sliding between her ribs.

Her hand let go, but the dagger remained, the dragon that formed the hilt looking at her with beady, glittering onyx eyes. _Surrender to yourself, Sariel. This is who you are. This is what you are._

A scream caught in her throat and she thrashed wildly, coming awake to find herself in Vanidar's tight grip despite her violent motions. He prevented her from falling off Myste, though the filly danced uneasily beneath them, knowing that demons haunted her mistress.

_Let go. Why do you want this weak, pathetic body? It hurts and it is broken. Used._

Grey eyes, green eyes, blue eyes—she caught glimpses of their faces, the angular lines of their cheeks and chins as they turned toward her. She turned away, afraid they would turn into monsters before her. Gandalf, Boromir, Gimli, Arwen, Lianderthral, Legolas, and Vanidar. She repeated their names over and over in her mind, clinging to the words as the darkness rose up to drown her.

Then she was running and running, and the dream started all over again.

* * *

It was a few hours before dawn when Gandalf finally stopped the company for a short rest, and this was more for the horses than their riders. The Elves could endure much and Boromir and Gimli were valiant of heart, well used to such a relentless pace of travel. Sariel was awake at the time and looked carefully at her companions' faces, wondering if they had stopped for her sake. She knew that the pain suppressants Vanidar had been giving her were almost all gone. No one would have the time to search for more of the herbs, let alone dry them and grind them into the powder that would provide full potency.

They made a small campfire and shared what provisions they had, but Sariel could not eat. Even in the past, when Belderon had constantly tested her tolerance for pain, it had never been so bad. From the way others looked at her, she knew they were deeply worried, but she was becoming certain that it would be better if they left her behind. She did not want to talk to them, so she lay half curled up on her side, pretending to sleep even as her mind stirred with restless thoughts. What did she have now? Her entire life was wide open—she had finally gained the freedom she had wanted—and yet it was as if she had no options at all. It was more terrifying than Belderon's plans.

If she made it to Rivendell with them, then what? Mirkwood, surely, to fight in the inevitable war, but Sariel did not want to think that far into the future. It was far too late for her to regain some semblance of a normal life. Belderon had changed her too much for that. She thought of the faces of the Elves that had surrounded her in Lothlórien as she had been whipped. A normal Elf would not have been treated so, but she was not normal. She was a traitor who had killed her own kind.

She would never be accepted back among her race; she barely had ties to them in the first place. She knew little or nothing about their laws and customs, or the traditions cherished by the Elves. She was an assassin and she had no skills other than her expertise: fighting and death. These would serve the Elves as they sought to turn back Belderon's army, but once they saw the full extent of her accomplishments, they would not want her to stay. Every day, it seemed like her companions were settling into their roles, princes and princesses and leaders all, but she had no people to protect and nothing to fight for except a vague idea of atonement.

It was a prince that came to sit beside her now and his body language gave away his unease even as he lowered himself to the ground and leaned forward to look at her face.

"Sariel." Just that, her name, but her heart gave a startled leap in her chest and a roaring sound filled her ears. Black spots filled her vision and she was suddenly lightheaded, though she pretended otherwise and waited for the haze to fade. When she could focus again, she found that he was no longer looking as dispassionate as he had before.

She parted her lips to speak and nothing came out. His eyes seemed to pin her down, keeping her exactly where she was lying, in pretense of resting. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue and tried again. "What do you want?"

The question was more direct than either of them had meant for it to be and she could not be sure who glanced away first. Legolas sat back but it made her feel to vulnerable to be talking to him while lying on her side, so she raised herself until she was almost eye level with him. The effort was probably not worth the pain, but she was so tired of everyone else seeing her as what they wanted to see, not what was truly there. She was in some ways better than they thought, but in other ways far worse.

"I am sorry I could not protect Lessena," he said finally. "You sent her to find me and I promised her safety."

"No one could protect her." Her voice was flat. "You did what you could. You should have left then for Mirkwood."

"Did you really believe we would abandon you? Did you think that after I had chased you here, I would simply head home, knowing what he would do to you?"

She flinched at the harsh tone that had entered his voice and he held himself very still, although the tension in his shoulders made even his sitting position seem combative. She stared at the patterns on his leather vambraces, at the nearly invisible stitching of his clothes.

"I was not thinking at all," she said dully. "I never do, when Belderon is involved. I do not want your pity. I have no one but myself to blame."

She could feel him staring at her as if the sheer intensity of his gaze would cause some change. "You may be free of Belderon, but you still let him control your mind. Why do you fight him one way while surrendering to him in another?"

"Weapons do not surrender, Legolas. People do." She closed her eyes, unable to stop the tears from trickling down, but at least she did not have to see his reaction. Her voice sounded thick but she forced the words from her tight throat anyway. "I am exactly what he created, a weapon for his hand."

She heard the soft exhalation of his breath, knew that he was trying to calm himself just as much as she did. This was too difficult. She was strong now, but only because he was provoking her, as if he could read her thoughts and knew exactly how close she was to actually giving up. Vanidar provided healing, Arwen empathy, and Lianderthral gave her comfort. But Legolas fought her and made her _care_, and it hurt too much to do so.

He reached down to hold her hand in his, squeezing her fingers so hard that even through all the other pains in her body, this was the one that she focused on. "You may be a weapon, but now you wield yourself."

"Do I?" she questioned, but there was no sting in her voice. "Are you here to tell me that my wounds are not healing as they should because I do not want them to heal?"

She turned to meet his gaze, finding it suddenly easy to do so, when she had hardly been able to bear looking at his face all this time before. "I have already heard it three times before, so there is little for you to add. All I wanted was to stop Belderon. I never expected to live after it."

She was so exhausted. Even the rush of energy she had felt when he had chosen to come speak to her was vanishing and his fingers clenched hers with a fading pressure. He appeared as though he were in the middle of a fight for his life and she stared, fascinated by this new side of him. He looked at her with fierce, focused concentration.

"You owe it to them to live, Sariel. You owe all those that you killed when you placed the value of your life over theirs." He did not try to soften his words. "If you cannot find anything else to live for, then live because you bought this freedom with their blood and you cannot give it up now, when they have already paid the price."

She had expected anything but this and it made her angry. "Is this all you have come to say to me?"

"Go to Lianderthral for your reassurances, Sariel, and he will wipe away your tears. You want something different from me." Legolas stated it without arrogance. He only wanted to make her acknowledge it.

She knew what he was doing now. He was going to push her toward the cliff until she either flew or fell. But if that was his intention, then she was not going to let go. She would take him with her. "And what do you want from me, Legolas?"

He was close to her that she could lean forward and rest her forehead on his shoulder, if she had the courage to try. Her intentions far surpassed simple comfort, however, and then she lost the small opportunity when he rose to his feet. "I want you to live, whatever it takes."

It was exactly what she had done under Belderon's control. The irony was almost too much.

* * *

If not for Vanidar, Sariel would have fallen from Myste time and time again. She had lost track of the days, of time, and of all else. Music reached her ears, a slow children's song of falling leaves and autumn splendor. She dreamed that it was her mother singing to her and Lessena, when she was small. She dreamed that she was in her family's _mallorn-_tree and that her father had just given her mother a harp. Her mother was playing it softly and Sariel raised her voice to join with the song, a slow transcendental melody with rippling arpeggios. Music was one of the few gifts her mother had been able to leave her, and even Belderon retained enough of his appreciation of it that he had not tried to take it away.

She felt like she was crying but knew that she was not. Someone was speaking to her, telling her that she was delirious with fever brought on by her wounds. She opened her mouth to tell them that she had never felt that things around her were sharper. Something cool and bitter was poured into her mouth and she obediently drank, though she was unable to swallow properly and almost choked.

In a brief moment of clarity, she knew that she was on the ground, not on horseback, but then someone stood before her. She looked up to see Belderon bending down toward her and shrieked, scrambling backward on hands and feet that would not obey her, crouched on all fours like an animal. Belderon hesitated and she bared her teeth, daring him to come touch her.

Only she knew that at the last moment, she had still resisted. Panic had flooded her mind and she had tried to struggle, hurting herself in her fury and fear. It had been too late, of course, but she had fought. It did not matter, since she was the one who had offered herself. Was it possible to be a willing victim? Did her struggle matter, in the end?

Even in her delirium, she could not escape the thoughts.

Someone had taken all her weapons. Being completely unarmed increased her fear, but she still had her body. Injured or otherwise, she could still kill. Belderon took a step toward her and she retreated.

"Do you want me to sing for you, Master?" Her voice was strained but clear. "I can sing the song I sang the night after that…lady. She did not resist. She did not understand she was dying, but I whispered your name in her ear, Master, as you wished."

"Belderon is dead, Sariel. Please, please stop. You need rest."

She ignored it. Belderon often tried to trick her. Breathing heavily, she started to sing. Her back throbbed, but she knew she had to continue. She finished and gasped for breath, feeling her chest constrict. "You can touch me. But you cannot harm them," she choked out. "The terms of our agreement."

Words echoed in her ears and she responded out of memory. "You will have me, but you will not have your revenge, Master. He does not care." _A question of how much, and is it enough?_

"Sariel, do not hurt yourself. Please, stop this." It was a female voice and the only ones she knew were her mother and sister, but this voice was neither. Belderon's voice was louder, drowning out the other words.

She bit down on her lip so savagely that with a burst of pain, she tasted coppery blood and felt it run down her lips. "You can hurt me but you will not be hurting him through me. Does this please you, Master?"

She started to tear at her clothes and Belderon reached out to grab her wrist. For a moment she froze, heart feeling as if it would burst in her chest. She wrenched it free, nearly screaming and lashed out with fingers bent into claws. She made contact but left only shallow scratches. A chorus of furious voices broke out. She ignored them all and gathered herself together, straightening her spine even though fresh pain broke out across her back. She stood tall but forced herself to remain passive.

Every breath she took hurt and her head ached, warning her that she would not remain conscious for much longer. All the better. She wanted to push her body to its limits, and over. "Your nightingale will not be of any more use to you, Belderon. I want to die. The last person I assassinate will be your assassin."

At her bold statement, the voices were finally silenced. She smiled, pleased that there was a place beyond Belderon's reach. She already felt the ground rising up to meet her, little rocks cutting into her knees. Everything inside of her hurt, as if there were sharp things trapped inside of her body. But what if Belderon brought her back, like he did with Aragorn?

Her hesitation was her downfall. Suddenly there was a circle of other beings around her, binding her hands behind her back. In the confusion, she did not resist, at first. Then someone recoiled when she threw herself toward the ground, using her torso as a dead weight, and she fell to her side, off balance. It seemed like too much effort. She did not want to fight her captors. She only wanted release.

"_Anna enni sîdh_," she begged, eyes wide with the visions of nightmares reflected in their blind blue and black. _Give me peace._

Her voice was lost amidst the others, or so it seemed to her. Then there was a voice cutting through it all like a bright and terrible sword.

"_No._"

* * *

"We are only one day away from Imladris," Arwen murmured, "though I am sore at heart to bring home tidings of war."

"Better forewarned than not," Gandalf chastised, but Arwen paid him little heed. Tension and strain had taken a toll on the Elves that mortal age did not. Even Arwen's bright eyes seemed shadowed after what had happened a few days ago. Sariel had not woken since then and the companions now looked toward Vanidar constantly, asking without words for updates on her condition. He had taken to binding her against him, trusting his own skill to keep them on Myste's back. She was quiet and nearly always unresponsive. The hallucinations no longer made her fight, but she burned from inside out with fever.

They pushed the horses to near exhaustion. They had left behind the trail of the orcs some time ago, setting out directly for Rivendell in a path south of the one Belderon's army was making. The most important thing was that once they reached Rivendell, messengers on fleet and well-rested Elven-bred horses could be sent ahead to Mirkwood.

It was all a matter of time and planning. It was certain that they could reach Mirkwood before the army itself, because on horseback they could cover four times the distance, if not more. The question was, could the Lord Elrond spare fighters to send to Mirkwood? Rivendell was a place of scholars and learning more so than Lórien, the Perilous Wood, and the realm of Eryn Lasgalen, which fought ever to overthrow the threatening shadow. And would Lord Elrond set aside his long disagreement with the King of Mirkwood and send aid in this time of need?

The Silvan wood-Elves of Eryn Lasgalen had long been separated from their other kin because of their everlasting battle against the darkness dominating the southern part of their great forest. It was because of this, perhaps, that Legolas's people adopted more practical and aggressive ways, spending more of their time on defense than the studying of lore. Before the time of Thranduil, during the reign of Oropher, relations had fallen out between Mirkwood and Rivendell, for King Oropher, grandfather of Legolas, was courageous but foolish, as all heroes were, and Elrond watched with disdain when many Elves died during his wars.

Sariel's fever had broken two nights ago, to their relief. But on the morning of the next day, it had come back with a vengeance and while some of Sariel's wounds improved, the flayed skin and flesh on her back was developing an infection that resisted everything Vanidar and Arwen tried.

Her one-sided conversation with Belderon had told them more than they wanted to know and some of them discussed it in hushed voices. Would Sariel give up as her sister had? They could not help her unless she helped herself and fought to live. It was almost a miracle that she had lived to begin with, after Belderon. During their infrequent stops for rest, Legolas sat besides her, filling her ears with harsh words that all the rest of the camp could hear. Vanidar tried to stop him once and found himself staring at the point of an arrowhead from a bow drawn at close range. On this, Legolas would not compromise.

In fact, he would not compromise at all. He gave back vehement denials of her requests for peace, surrender. Rather than coming to her side in order to whisper quiet pleas for her to fight, as virtually every one of them had done at some point, he directed scathing remarks at her. Hate, anger, guilt, shame—these were the emotions he released on her, heedless of who else could hear him, and everything he directed toward her seemed to be directed at himself as well.

Watching, Arwen could not bring herself to try to stop him, and yet she worried. They all did, and they knew what it was that Legolas was trying to do. Yet was it the right way? Could he bring her back to life through the sheer force of his will? Sometimes Legolas's intensity made Arwen fear that he would become mad himself. His face grew thinner, his sculpted features even more sharply defined. The dark smudges under his eyes only seemed to heighten the flawless blue of his eyes, and the tangled hair and braids framing his face looked like skeins of cornsilk.

Legolas pushed himself as much as he did Sariel, speaking to her like that. Arwen often sat as silent witness, hearing him rant and rave at her until his voice was so hoarse that it was painful for others to even listen. He barely had a leash on the chaotic emotions he poured onto her as if they were salve for her wounds, stinging and cleansing, or flames that would cauterize infected flesh.

She worried for them both, wondering which one of them would burn out first.

* * *

"Imladris," Arwen breathed, her eyes filling with tears as her surroundings became more and more familiar. Her father and brothers waited for them. They had finally reached her home.

Looking at the peacefulness of their surroundings, Legolas was reminded of words Gimli once spoke to him, when they were on the Quest. The danger of light and joy was where the chief peril lay, among the fair Elves. Evil and temptation one could withstand, as Gimli had said, but light was the more dangerous, for in its beauty is a spell as hazardous as that in shadow.

It seemed that they would fight ever on, for evil could never be defeated for long. But when these warriors were weary and longed only for peace, what then? Rivendell was a temptation, for men but also for Elves, for it was a place where one could easily dwell forever, seeking only knowledge. It was a place where peace could turn into complacency, if one was not careful.

Here, every line was pleasing to the eye, and golden light filtered down the hidden vales. Morning mist sparkled, casting small rainbows into the air, lovelier than even the Elven songs that wove upward toward the sun. Here, the great loremasters were serene in their wisdom and all was harmonious, untouched by such as Belderon and his orcs.

Light is more deceptive than darkness, for all people are drawn to beauty, though what they see as beautiful is not always the same. The soul yearned to return to such places of beauty, to give up purpose and determination in return for simple contentment. Who could resist the light, having been shown its splendors? Who could resist a place like Imladris?

It was said that the Orcs were the descendants of such Elves who were tortured by Sauron, and sometimes Legolas felt that they should be pitied as much as they were hated, for it seemed they were incapable of good. They were born or created for darkness. They ravaged, destroyed, and killed. But what was it that inevitably put them on this path of violence, so that there was no hope for them, no redemption of any kind? Even the Uruk-hai, who unlike the orcs could bear the light of day, did not know what it meant to live in light, as the Elves did. Did they even know that they would never be part of it, by their very nature?

There was beauty of the soul and beauty of the body; the Elves prided themselves on the fact that these two things came together in their race. Yet the Elves were high-minded, seeing the orcs as primitive, not much more that beasts that killed for the joy of killing. Even beasts inspired a respect that the orcs did not, in the eyes of the Elves. Predators had their natural place in the hierarchy of life, while orcs were unnatural abominations. But what really made them so?

These were the thoughts that drove Legolas to Sariel's side each time they stopped for rest. These thoughts made him wonder whether dark and light could truly be so easily defined. What place did things occupy on the spectrum of good and evil, and could they move toward one end or another? Could they choose where they began? Orcs entered the world knowing only despair, he thought, but might it be that they were so intent on destroying things of light because they yearned for it, were fascinated by it, even, but knew they could never have it?

Legolas sighed, wondering at his own restless mood and wandering thoughts. Imladris lay before them and Sariel had woken for the first time in days without fever or hallucination. Why did he still question? Yet he knew the reason why: he was not thinking of the orcs at all.

He thought of Sariel, born an Elf of Lórien, taught to become an assassin. There was no redemption for her either. She had done terrible things. Did it matter if it was by her choice? The Elves would not care, any more than they cared that orcs were, by nature, orcs. It was impossible to imagine what kind of orc should possibly _not _be killed. The concept of mercy could not be applied to them. They were the enemy, they had always been, and no one questioned the necessity of destroying what threatened them, any more than they questioned whether Sauron could be persuaded to change his ways for the better. Would the Elves question this necessity when it was Sariel who was under their judgment? The closer they drew to Imladris and the more Sariel improved, the more anxious Legolas actually became.

The Silven Elves of his people had accepted Sindarin princes as their rulers because they believed in higher wisdom, but no living being was perfect, as much as the Elves strove to be. The passage of time affected each Elf differently, and there were some among his kind who grew to see the world through a veil of scorn and cynicism. There were also others who succumbed to common faults such as pride and arrogance, and even those driven in the search for knowledge sometimes became blind to the very truths they thought they had found. Condemnations and judgments came easily to the lips of Men, the Elves often said, but the same things also came easily to Elves who had witnessed hundreds of acorns grow into great oak trees.

What kind of world would Sariel wake to face, and was this the world she fought to remain alive in? It had been the downfall of Sariel the assassin when she had glimpsed love and friendship in Lothlórien, things unattainable for her. Legolas knew how others would see her and he ached with helpless frustration now, knowing the hypocrisy of a world that created such ideals, but could not live up to them.

He saw Imladris for what it really was: a place of nearly unrivaled beauty and peace. But though Legolas might marvel at the loveliness of this Elven haven, all the while he would also sorrow that it could not be shared with the rest of the world. Nor could the outside world, with its reality of gray, penetrate such a place of pure white. He was tired of fighting all the time for something he was not sure he believed in any more. It was so much easier to determine what to do and what was right when the world existed in blacks and whites, when he was confident of his fellow Elves, rather than uneasily wondering what level of tolerance they had for anything different, unusual, _grey_ with perhaps more dark than light…

Sariel. His lips shaped the name and he knew that they were none of them phoenixes, able to burn off the past and rise from the ashes in a new beginning. But they would continue to try, for even the most imperfect of beings still burned with a living spirit that could strive toward the light.

**

* * *

**A/N: **Please review!** Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Final version, _April 2010_


	19. A'mael

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

**Chapter 19: **_**A'mael**_** (Beloved)**

For all Legolas' grim thoughts, he still fell under the lovely spell that was Imladris as he always did, no matter how many times he had visited before or how wary he was of delighting in its sheer beauty. There was simply always a great sense of peace here that could not be found anywhere else, even in Eryn Lasgalen or Lothlórien. The Men called it Rivendell, but Elvish influence was apparent in every part of the hidden vales and shadowed valleys. The twisting designs were all pleasing to the eye, the smooth curves of the strong yet elegant architecture mimicking the perfections found in nature. Even the wild scenery of trees and water showed a gentler side of nature than what existed in the greenwood forest of Legolas' home.

Each aspect of the beauty reinforced the whole. Was it simply that those who dwelled here were content, happy living their lives? Security was something rare in other places, since danger was almost always a constant threat. In the secretive vales of Imladris, Legolas could let other worries fall away from him for a while. Even knowing his home was under attack, he could find a moment of rest here.

Even as he watched Gandalf greet the Lord Elrond, Legolas' attention was captured by his surroundings. The two leaders left while other greetings were being exchanged, since the news Gandalf had to impart was too important for any delay. Gandalf's absence seemed to almost immediately sap some kind of vitality from the group—the urgency and desperation that had kept them all going despite fatigue. Although they would still press on to Mirkwood as a matter of course, there were others that would carry the news there first.

The companions stood alone for a few moments, a rather sudden and unexpected quiet in the room, the kind of silence that lingers in the air when something large and exciting is happening, yet no one individual can do anything about it. Exhaustion and the need for rejuvenating sleep affected them all, but a quick glance at the others told Legolas that he was not the only one feeling restless.

So much had passed since he had last been here during the Council of Elrond. This was where he met many of his current companions. He was visiting a place from the past, realizing that it had not changed, yet he himself had changed profoundly. Was it for the better or worse?

He was not the only one so affected by memories. Arwen stood in the middle of the room, an almost painfully solitary figure. Gimli and Boromir looked away from her uncomfortably, for liquid glistened on her smooth cheeks. Legolas thought of how difficult it must have been for her to willingly return here, how in some strange way, it actually made her pain for Aragorn alive again. Maybe it was because Rivendell still stood as a symbol of all she had sacrificed for him, all she had _wanted _to sacrifice for him. She would leave this place of beauty and peace, would refuse even to sail to the undying lands of Valinor, as so many of her departing kin did. Now that Legolas focused on it, Rivendell's calm and peace seemed even more profound because it was empty, built for more inhabitants than currently dwelt within. The Elves were leaving, their time of glory coming to an end.  
Arwen had been prepared to give up everything, but she had done so only to find that none of her sacrifices mattered in the end. How would she explain Aragorn's living death, the nightmare into which the triumphant couple, the future king and queen, had been thrust? It was too unfair that it was not at the height of war, but in its aftermath, in what should have been a new beginning, that she had lost everything. How many memories were bound up in this place, where a young Estel had grown up and where the Evenstar had been hidden by her father? How could Arwen bear to continue living her life, the eternal life that she would have given up for him?

"Arwen," Legolas said softly to her back, and touched her shoulder. He wished he had the power to lessen her pain, but such was the nature of private sorrows—their burden could not be shared. There was no way to offer consolation without pity. There was a moment when Arwen realized that the others had all fallen into a sympathetic silence. She raised her hand, calmly wiping away the few tears that she had shed without sound.

"There is hope yet," he said awkwardly, echoing the meaning of Aragorn's adopted Elvish name. The words could not give her much comfort, but he wanted her to know that he would follow where she led, if that was what she wished. The look in her eyes clearly told him that she knew what he was thinking and appreciated his silent touch as much as his verbal offering. He would support her, as would they all, whether it was for Aragorn's final death, which would be a release from the travesty of his current imitation of life, or in the hope of some miraculous healing. Legolas had faith in the Evenstar still, in her fading, dusky light.

At that moment the door on the far side of the room opened and two tall, familiar figures entered, walking directly to Arwen and wrapping her in a tight embrace. The twin sons of Elrond were tall, neither young nor old, with dark hair and grey eyes like their sister's. Their resemblance was startling; strangers would surely be unable to tell the two apart. Each face was Elven-fair despite their mixed heritage and they were clad alike in cloaks of a grayish silver hue. When they drew back, Arwen standing between them, Legolas found himself drawing in a slight breath of amazement. So it always was, with those of Celebrían and Elrond's line. They were like no others.

"Elrohir, Elladan," he greeted them warmly. Closely, the familial similitude was unmistakable. Since Arwen looked as if she would not speak, he introduced the twins to the rest of their companions one by one, and endured their amazement when they saw his own near twin, Lianderthral. But it was not a time for merry greetings and he remembered, too, that they were the ones who had taught a young Aragorn his wilderness skills, taking him with them on hunts for orcs.

Sariel stood a little apart from the others, the only one who had never met Arwen's brothers, who were also her not too distant kin. He could read the tension in her stiff posture and the slight hunching of her shoulders told him plainly that she felt she deserved blame for what had happened to Aragorn. Although her health had much improved, she retained the look of someone who had recently been gravely ill. Despite it all, she was undeniably fair and bore more than a faint resemblance to Arwen.

Though he had argued against it, he knew that Sariel had dosed herself with some of the medicines that she had collected for use in her profession. Most of the strange powders, herbs, and satchels could be used to do the things that would typically aid an assassin. Legolas did not forget that he himself had once been put to sleep by one of her concoctions, though some stroke of luck had saved him then. What Sariel had taken was something different, a stimulant that gave her strength to keep up with the others, so that she would not delay them. Her eyes now were not quite fever bright, but it was clear that the effects had not all dissipated.

While he wondered whether Sariel would tolerate his presence if he were to close the distance between them, the three siblings left the room together, seeking privacy. The knowledge of Aragorn's fate shone clear in Elrohir and Elladan's eyes, but their faces were impassive when they faced Sariel, each giving a shallow bow of acknowledgement and perhaps, if so interpreted, silent welcome. Clearly they had been with their father when Gandalf brought the news, and had immediately left to seek out their sister when they heard what had befallen Aragorn.

Legolas watched them go and then Gimli caught his gaze. They shared a moment of understanding; others did not understand how an Elf and a Dwarf, so at odds with each other in so many ways, could form a friendship. Legolas knew it was moments like this that made Gimli stand apart from others and that brought them close.

Elf and Dwarf, the two of them were the most different from the others of the Fellowship. In each other's friendship however, Legolas and Gimli had learned that whether Dwarf, human, wizard, Elf, or yet another race, they were all the indistinguishable in spirit. In this, in their ability to set aside pride and history, they were wiser than many of the oldest leaders of the races of Middle-Earth. Only they could show the world what true companionship meant, only they could begin to break the prejudice and hate that afflicted even the Elves, who were held and who held themselves in such esteem.

"They know Sariel is mourning her sister," Gimli murmured to his friend in sudden realization, after seeing how the twins left her alone. "Elrond must have told his sons what Aragorn had done while under Belderon's control."

"Yet Lessena's death holds some small blessings," Legolas said just as softly, "which I believe she recognized herself." It seemed wrong to acknowledge that Lessena's death had prevented more unhappiness, but it was true, and he believed that she had known what her death would bring. Perhaps it was wrong for her to have killed the child that lay inside her, but she had understood her own sacrifice.

They had to face and accept this unflinchingly; her memory deserved this much, at least, for one who had spent the majority of her life in misery. Lessena had done her best to control her legacy and minimize the hurt that Arwen would suffer. Had Sariel even had the time to tell Lessena that they shared the same blood as Arwen from their mother's lineage?

He was glad that Arwen's courage had remained unflagging and that though Sariel could have been shunned, she had thus far been tolerated. After all, small blessings were all they could ask for, when time marched inexorably toward war.

* * *

Sariel found herself wishing that they could linger here longer. Imladris in her mind consisted of vague impressions, of unidentifiable faces and voices. It was, Sariel thought, more like a dream than even Lórien, named for dreaming. Everything was so vivid when dreaming it, but upon awaking, the dreamer either does not remember or has difficulty recapturing the sense of clarity, knowing only that the moment had come and passed. For someone who had relied so much on her trained senses, the journey and stay here was an altogether new experience.

She had never been so weak or suffered so much before, but even in her healing, it seemed as if she had passed some point of no return. She could never return to the Sariel who had met an Elf named Legolas on the way to her final assassination. She could never even be the Sariel who had, in a moment of great weakness and courage, decided to exchange herself in return for her companions' lives. It was as if she could no longer recognize herself, as if she had alienated her most inner sense of self. Abruptly, a flash of memory came back to her again.

_How could you believe I would leave you with Belderon?_

_How could you believe I would not care?_

She could still hear these faint fragments from her long period of delirium. Had he really said such things to her or where they only hallucinations? She did not dare to ask the others, and least of all him. Yet these memories were the most vivid of all. She could hear the harsh, angry words, the sound of his voice breaking in anguish. He hurt her with words and yet they were all the things she wanted to hear, so it was more than likely that she had never actually heard them.

She could never be the same person again. She knew that with surety, yet where did that leave her? He had forced her to live; she knew that much, even if she could not recall very much. Even now, there was a connection between them, a debt. But she had been diminished. She was no one, nothing.

For a very long time Sariel was puzzled by her inaction, the feeling that she had lost her sense of direction in some dark, downward spiral that she could not name. As others around her took some respite in Imladris and made plans, as Arwen grieved and Elrond conferred with Gandalf, she alone seemed without purpose. She could not even bear to venture outside of the room she had been temporarily given. The future was terrifyingly uncertain. The emptiness seemed to swallow her up.

The hours that passed in Rivendell only heightened her sense of being superfluous. What discussions the others may have held with Lord Elrond and the other Elves did not include Sariel, nor did she seek to be included. It was possible that they believed it was better for her to rest, for she was still ill indeed, though her condition had improved. There was little to do and too much time to think, to watch other lives move around her, as if she were a mere aberration in the cloth being woven from the individual threads of their lives.

Even the coming war with Belderon's army did not seem so terrible. It paled in contrast to the wars so recently fought, the War of the Ring and other such battles. True, lives would be lost and destroyed, but that was a fundamental part of any conflict.

At the problem's heart was the simple fact that Sariel could not contribute anything. As an assassin, her skills were useless for war. She dealt out death on an individual basis and in the shadows, not in daylight. She was no warrior. Until recently, she had never fought for anything other than her own life.

It disconcerted her that there was no aim to her actions now. She was following Gandalf and the others blindly. Was this the freedom she had fought for? It was simpler when she had a master to tell her to do this and that, because she would not have had to think or plan for herself. In some ways, Sariel had never been independent and yet in other ways, she had never known what it meant to be able to depend on anyone other than herself. Her entire life had been lived as a reactionagainst what fate had thrown at her. She could not remember a time where she had had to determine what paths she would tread.

Two days had passed quickly, with an air of urgency. She might have sought out Arwen, but the other Elf was always with her father and brothers, and Sariel feared them. Arwen did not have time to spare for her, in any case. Matters of Gondor had to be dealt with, the people were leaderless and vulnerable to attack…these weighty issues were beyond the scope of Sariel's knowledge. How could she, who could not govern her own life, know anything about governing others?

On the third morning, Sariel sat at the small table in her room, cleaning and sharpening her weapons. It was a methodical task reminiscent of the many hours she spent doing the same thing in Belderon's fortress. She had just finished putting away her knives when a knock came at her door. For a moment, she wondered if she should pretend she was still sleeping, but a sudden surge of loneliness brought her to the door. It was yet another change. She had never needed the company of others before.

"It is Vanidar," the slightly muffled voice announced. She exhaled deeply in relief and disappointment, having not realized she had even held her breath.

She opened the door hesitantly. He looked as he always did, though somehow she felt smaller than usual. "Yes?"

"Will you let me in?" he asked with a hint of laughter in his voice as she continued to stand in the doorway.

Abashed, Sariel held the door open in invitation. Vanidar came in and sat; Sariel imitated him, wondering uneasily about the news he was surely bringing.

"Tomorrow morning we will depart with all haste for Eryn Lasgalen. The strategy that Lord Elrond and Gandalf had devised hinges on a critical aspect—that we will ride ahead, overtake the orcs who are slower on foot, and arrive in Eryn Lasgalen in order to help ready the defenses for war. Individual messengers have been sent, but King Thranduil's Elves will need more than mere news."

Sariel had not expected such a blunt summary. She stared at him, a dozen protests about the risky nature of this plan flooding to the forefront of her mind. Vanidar continued before she could give voice to any of them.

"Boromir and Arwen will remain behind, but about a hundred or so Elves, along with Elrohir and Elladan, will prepare to journey to Eryn Lasgalen to later bolster the number of King Thranduil's fighters," he said to her gravely.

"A hundred Elves?" Sariel questioned. Her heart sank; how could so few battle the thousands under Aragorn's leadership?

"He cannot spare more." Vanidar's manner told her that much time had been spent on this already, and warned her not to argue.

"Of course," she said softly. Surely Elrond would have given all of the aid that was his to give. All were arranging things to the best of their effort. It was no one's fault that it might not be enough.

He tilted his head slightly to one side, almost birdlike, as he studied her closed expression. "I have faith, Sariel, in our leaders. You must learn to treasure the little candle-flame of hope. Do not worry overmuch, for after all, greater wars than this one have been fought and won."

For some reason, the statement angered her. "Yet in each, blood has been shed and lives lost, have they not?" she retorted bitterly. There was no way out, no triumph without sacrifice. As soon as she spoke, she knew that she was letting her personal feelings and the disastrous outcome to her own ordeal override her reason.

He drew back in surprise at her tone, but even worse, she watched as his eyes filled with compassion and something too close to pity for comfort. "Yes," he said simply.

"Let us speak no more of it."

"As you wish. Sariel, will you join us tonight? It will be the last in Rivendell, and none have seen you leave the privacy of your room."

His gaze was too gentle, too kind. She looked down at her folded hands and even that small bit of exposed skin still bore the visible marks of Belderon's torture. If she wore gloves, she would be covered from head to toe, with the exception of her face. "I know where I am not welcome, Vanidar."

"Surely you will come to say farewell to Arwen," he said still, without denying what she had said. He saw through her dissemblance too easily and knew that she would rather push others away than wait for them to exclude her. He took her hand in his and held it hard for a brief moment, contrition in his eyes though it was no one's place to apologize.

She sighed. "Yes, I shall." The reply satisfied him and he gave her a small smile that for some reason made her feel better. Her moment of doubt passed and she gazed at him, letting the dark blue of her eyes show him what she could not articulate: _thank you_.

* * *

It was late in the night and they all should have been resting for the journey they would start tomorrow, but Sariel sat up late by the fire, restless. For this last night, they slept outside underneath the stars, for convenience, as their journey would start before dawn. Gimli lay close to where she was sitting, already fast asleep. Every deep breath he took was accompanied with the rattle of chain mail, causing Sariel's lips to curve into a slight smile despite all her other worries. The Dwarf would be stiff and aching tomorrow after a night sleeping like this. Yet perhaps he was used to it, or else Sariel could not see why he would impose such a torture upon himself.

Earlier, she had tried to determine her fitness by attempting some of the most basic practice forms with her knives. She did not have the strength yet for swordwork and even with the relatively light Elven knives, she could not move without sharp pains. She persisted anyway, though her movements surely exacerbated some of her wounds. She had to know whether she could defend herself. It was likely foolish of her to push herself, but it was one of the few driving impulses she felt.

Halfway through, Lianderthral wordlessly joined her, no doubt to keep an eye on her in case she overstrained herself. Sariel adjusted with some difficulty, but it was the mental adjustment that was the more challenging. She had not seen him for days as well, since he had been constantly with Gandalf and Elrond, no doubt to offer his own wisdom. She could only guess that his sharp mind, with its seeming limitless knowledge about all sorts of things, contributed greatly even when it came to military matters.

Though they had not spoken even after their practice then, she could see Lianderthral's shadow moving toward her now. His hovering concern, while technically little different from Vanidar's, took on a different significance. They had not spoken at all about what had happened in the little glade, now her sister's eternal resting place. As he sat down besides her without asking first, Sariel took one look at his face and knew that the subject could no longer be avoided. She was no longer delirious and they were not alone—Lianderthral had done this deliberately, she thought, looking through the flames of the fire to the other side, focusing on Legolas' hands busily mending a torn garment.

"Why now?" she asked, though she knew it was unfair. He had been busy. They all had been, except her.

He acknowledged her unfriendly tone with a slight nod, but his face was still composed, giving no hint as to what he was thinking. "I thought you needed some time to yourself to think. After everything that has happened, I thought that you would be angry with me."

It was so unexpected that it took her a moment to respond, but even as she did so, Sariel realized that it was true. She had been angry at being abandoned by her companions, yes, but there were other unresolved things between Lianderthral and herself. Her shoulders were stiff, her eyes focused on the flames before them. "Why did you say those things to me, Lianderthral? Why did you make promises you knew you could not possibly keep?"

"I meant them, Sariel. I meant those words then and I still mean them now. I wanted you to understand. Whatever you choose, whatever lies in the future for you, you will not be alone, if you do not wish it."

From the corner of her eye, she could tell that he was looking at her. He seemed more afraid for her and how she would react than for any hurt that he could suffer because of her.

In her grief after Lessena's death and in the chaotic state of her own emotions after her torment, Sariel had accepted his words as if they were water to cure an insatiable thirst. She could remember lying together with him, the comfort of feeling his living, beating heart besides her own. The chaste kiss he had bestowed on her forehead had been comfort, nothing more. But in the last few days, she had examined the moment in her mind countless times and knew that he had given her a rare glimpse of his real feelings. He had given her something dangerously close to a vow.

"We are riding to war," she said carefully, at last. "Who knows what will happen then? I have been alone my entire life, Lianderthral. Do not tell me that you will always be there for me."

Rather than answer her, Lianderthral's expression became distant, as if he were listening to music that only he could hear. Too late, Sariel realized that she had just revealed to Legolas part of what had passed between them. Even across the fire and above the crackling of the flames, his keen hearing would surely have picked up their every word.

But it seemed important to Lianderthral that all three of them were here, even if Legolas was not truly part of their conversation. Sariel could not shake the feeling that Lianderthral deliberately wanted this to be witnessed. The only question was why. In all this time, he had rarely made her uncomfortable and she could not believe that he would ever try to manipulate her unless he thought it was for her benefit. No, there was something more behind this.

"Do you believe in soul mates, Sariel?" Lianderthral asked her quietly. The fire sparked at the same time and she flinched, but made no other sound. She knew she should answer, but the silence lengthened until it became hopelessly awkward. Finally, Lianderthral continued, to her relief, as if all along he had not expected her to answer.

"The High Elves believed once, a long time ago, that at the dawn of our race, there were no male and female. All souls were one, whole, infinite. Then came the sundering and the souls were torn apart, each becoming two, male and female."

Sariel shifted uneasily, not particularly wanting to hear these mythologies of her ancestors. She knew little of the history of her own race and preferred it that way. Talking of these legends disturbed her on more than one level. "Why did they believe this?"

"The High Elves thought that all things lived for this eternal search to undo the damage. They believed that only when you find the other half of your soul can you become complete. When two soul mates found each other, they would complement each other in every way. The resonance between those two halves of a soul would be an irresistible song from the music composed by destiny."

Lianderthral's light tenor wrapped around her until she could almost imagine hear it, a glorious music, perhaps like what she had heard in the presence of the Vala, when she had nearly died in her duel with Belderon. Sariel shivered, remembering how it had almost been as if she could see the souls of each of her companions. It was as though with the story she had just heard, she had reclaimed some lost part of her heritage that she had never known was missing.

"What do you believe, Lianderthral? Do you think our lives are so long because we are always searching for our other half?" She heard herself speak, but her own voice seemed far away. She was painfully aware of the strange tableau between the three of them.

"I believe that if you find your other half, you would not be absolute counterparts."

Across the fire, Legolas stirred as if about to stride over and stop their conversation. Again, Sariel avoided looking at his face, but watched in stricken fascination as his hands stopped their sewing and instead clenched the cloth tightly, half hidden in the voluminous folds of what she realized was a cloak. The movement instead exposed a small pin with a tiny gem that caught the firelight, flashing silver and crystal blue. With a start, she suddenly realized that the cloak was familiar; it was one she had worn.

_Why is he doing this? _Sariel thought desperately, afraid that the moment she had been dreading was here. She willed Lianderthral not to speak, to end the discussion here, before anyone was hurt. She could feel his warm gaze on her and blood rushed to her cheeks. "Sariel, I feel as if I when I met you, I found something that I had never known I was missing. Even now, I feel as if have known you forever, as if you are a piece of my soul."

She made the mistake of looking back at him and there was a strange quality to his expression. There was no pride or arrogance there, as she might have expected from his declaration. It was almost as if he were entreating her to think before she protested, to find out why he had done all this. He had the look, she thought wonderingly, of someone trying to save her even at the cost of his own happiness.

It was this last thing that kept her from saying anything, but Legolas had been pushed past his limit. She had not even seen him stalk over to them, but he stood before both of them now, arms crossed and a cold expression on his face—cold in a way that hinted at carefully controlled fury.

"You tell her foolish stories and pretend that they are the legends of our kind," he said, the edge to his voice so cutting that Sariel almost could not follow his actual meaning. "What use is it to us what the High Elves believed?"

Sariel opened her mouth to defend Lianderthral, to try to ease the rapidly degenerating situation, but when she glanced in the green-eyed Elf's direction, she found he was looking at the both of them with what looked like a slight smile—a bitter smile, mocking. She could not understand it. He was never so intense, almost aggressive, as if he wanted to instigate some sort of quarrel between them. One of the things she had found so admirable about him was the way he seemed to add a quality of careless ease to whatever he said or did. The Lianderthral she knew was nonchalantly pleasant, always even-tempered even when she lost hers, one of the many reasons why she enjoyed his companionship so much.

There was something different going on, and she could not help but agree a little with Legolas, even over the slight feelings of guilt. Someone else, perhaps, would have been touched by all his words on soul mates. She knew he meant them, but she did not believe in stories, legends or otherwise. Sariel was only perplexed as to Lianderthral's motives for this. He had brought Legolas within arms' length of her for the first time in days, but she felt as though she would be stifled between their two angry presences—for she had no doubt that Lianderthral was furious in his own way, too. What she could not understand was why he seemed to be angry for her sake, rather than his own.

"Perhaps we are all fools, indeed," said Lianderthral. He leaned forward, eyes intent on her face. In the light of the fire, his eyes were dark, almost black except when the light caught at the clear green of his irises. "Nonetheless, I would like to know what Sariel thinks of such a foolish story. Do you believe in soul mates, Sariel?"

"I do not know." She bit her lip. "I do not understand."

"The High Elves believed that soul mates would complement each other and thus create an ideal balance between two lovers. Yet if two people were able to find each other, two parts of one soul, I believe that they would love, but could not be lovers. For how could one be the lover the other half of oneself?"

She stared at him, turning his poignant words over and over in her mind, and in the corner of her eye she saw Legolas, the hollows of his countenance shadowed in the firelight. He seemed to understand what she could not. He looked toward Lianderthral, into the face so much like his own yet subtly different.

Brilliant green met translucent blue and Sariel held her breath at the prolonged contact of their eyes, the fire dancing in between the two figures and turning their hair to molten gold. Standing together, they looked as alike as Elladan and Elrohir had, as if they could be twins, as if they _were _twins. Lianderthral seemed to be telling him something and she was there to witness, but not to participate.

"You speak of a pure love," she said a little desperately, only wishing to end the awful connection between the two Elves that seemed to be a confrontation on another level that she could not understand. "You speak of souls and spirits, but how can I understand? Mine has never belonged to me. What could have been mine was destroyed long ago, when Belderon captured an Elven girl from amidst the great mallorn-trees of Lórien."

"Then when you find the other half of your soul, he will guide your spirit home again, and perhaps you can find again what you believe you have lost," Lianderthral said. "Is it not but simply another sundering, of the soul from self?"

She had not the heart to tell him that she could not believe in such things. Legolas still stood before them, though his tall figure was no longer as imposing as it had been. At last, he murmured, "So that is the way it is to be." He directed another inscrutable look toward Lianderthral, but Sariel thought that there was something of admiration or sympathy in it.

"Lianderthral," she said quietly but determinedly, grasping at elusive words. "I do not understand everything you have told me, but I know I trust you above all others. Even when we first met, I trusted you against all reason. We may have found each other by fate or destiny, or more than likely it was by pure chance. Whatever brought us together, I know that I feel as though you are truly a part of me."

It was awkwardly said at best, but though her words lacked fluidity, they were sincere. Did she believe in soul mates? There had been no room for such ideas even in all the long years of her life. She had not lived in search of her other half; she had lived on the stolen years of others' lives. Did she believe in souls? Somehow, she _wanted_ to believe, though she did not think she could. Yet there was something in the story that Lianderthral had told to her that touched her deeply and she could almost accept that in him, she truly had found a missing half of her soul.

Lianderthral's eyes were a liquid emerald when she finally looked at him, meeting his gaze directly and oddly without apprehension. She realized that it was a sheen of liquid in his eyes that lent an extra jewel-like brilliance to their color, and the sudden thought that he was holding back tears caused something within her ribs to contract painfully. Despite her aversion to touch, she nearly reached out to put her hand on his shoulder. The question was not how he could mean so much to her, but how she could possibly mean so much to him. He made it clear to her in so many ways and disbelieving, she pretended to be blind to them all.

Tonight, yet another veil had been removed and too late, she realized what was left exposed far more than it concealed. Lianderthral looked away from her first and rose without another word, gesturing mutely at Legolas to take his spot by the fire. Sariel watched him leave uneasily, still wondering exactly what had just passed. She could not tell if he meant to keep her apart from Legolas or to bring them together.

Then there was only Legolas and herself. It was too hard to adjust to after days of avoidance and Sariel clenched her hands to keep them from trembling. "There are only a few hours before we start for my home," he told her. "You should rest. You have not been healing as you should."

She looked at him with her new eyes, with her new self. So much had happened to change them, and yet they sat together here still, and something pulled her toward him. She closed her eyes briefly, imagining how it would feel to be able to rest her head against his shoulder, to feel his arms with their hard leather vambraces encircle her waist. These things were not for her. They were pieces from the romantic stories that Legolas had so derided, and yet she could not stop herself from wanting them.

She had thought she loved Legolas back then and so had failed in her assassination, but this feeling now was so similar and yet so different. It had been blind infatuation and passion that had held back her hand, then. Had he not woken, perhaps she still would have completed her task despite her hesitation. Rather than fading, however, those feelings had lingered and deepened, until it was with despair that she had given herself into Belderon's hands.

_How could you believe I would leave you with Belderon?_

_How could you believe I would not care__?_

Sariel bit back a scream of frustration, the damnable questions still echoing in her head. She had imagined them, or had she? A swirl of emotion took away her breath as she remembered how he had choked on the words, on his pain and anger. She must have imagined it. But she _did _believe and all the things that Legolas had said to her were true. She wanted something from him, wanted it so very desperately, and pathetic as her love might be, it was what had kept her alive. She had lost so much, lost nearly everything, and yet her need for his regard remained.

Yet what also frightened her was the sure knowledge that she felt something much the same with Lianderthral. Without him, she would have given up. Belderon had thoroughly and meticulously broken her body and had nearly broken her mind, and then she had discovered that she had even lost Lessena… Somehow, Lianderthral had saved her then from her own despair. Was this the pure love of the spirit? But she was not a being of spirit like the Valar, but rather a simple Elf of ordinary flesh and blood.

Legolas, too, had saved her in his own way, one that she did not fully understand even now. He made her feel things, when she only wanted to be numb. Was this even love at all? If Lianderthral gave her water, Legolas gave her fire. He sat besides her now and her heart beat faster just because he was close. Neither of them spoke, but her arms ached from hugging her own body tightly, to prevent herself from uncontrollably reaching out for his hand. Even the horrors from Belderon she had suffered could not kill this longing. She needed him in a way that made her feel elated and afraid all at the same time.

How could she tell if this was love, when it was the first time she was experiencing desire?

* * *

The sun rose and dawn painted the sky full of color, too bright and too beautiful. The seasons continued to change, uncaring of the wars within the world. Time went on, oblivious to all. The flowers adorning the graceful arches of Rivendell still blossomed and released their fragrant scent on the wind. None of the beauty of Imladris had faded, except in her heart, for Sariel only saw the bloody red-orange of the sky, like an omen.

To Eryn Lasgalen, the Wood of Greenleaves, then…to where Legolas was a prince and she would always be his assassin.

She glanced over at her companions, fewer and fewer in number. She accompanied them on this journey, but she had no part in the war, despite her role in its creation. She took the burden on herself to be a witness of the destruction that had resulted from her actions. If she would fight as a common warrior, just one more archer in a thousand, then so be it. She would not grieve for herself any longer.

They would rally the defenses, but children would die anyway. How many innocents on either side would perish before the war was won? She was selfishly glad that she would not be here when the hundred Elven warriors departed, glad that she would not witness the tears of those lovers left behind, waiting for news of life or death. War always tested the strength of these relationships between people: husband and wife, father and son, mother and daughter, brother and sister, and so much more. Almost inevitably, the result was always the same: the severing of these bonds.

Maybe it was as Vanidar had shown her—hope was easy to keep aloft on dove's wings when the world was peaceful. It is harder to hope when the dove is shot down in war, wings cruelly pierced through with an arrow, its blood a scarlet banner on its white wings.

No war could ever be a true victory; no war would ever be a success. Yet what they fought for mattered. They all knew that loss awaited them in the horizon, but still rode on. Sometimes sacrifice was necessary and sometimes there was honor in death, because what Sariel had learned from everything she had suffered was that it was better to die for an ideal than to live with none at all.

* * *

**Please review**!

_Finalized April 2010_


	20. Bittersweet Partings

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

Dedication: To all the reviewers and especially to _S*Quilltwiner_ and _cardboardtiger runs_. Thanks for providing the wakeup call and encouragement that I needed!

Notes: All the places mentioned here can be found on the maps of Middle-Earth. Most of my descriptions of Mirkwood and Thranduil are based on _The Hobbit_, but as any fan knows, Tolkien's later works differ vastly from his early writings, e.g. portrayal of the Elves, characterization of Gandalf.

**Chapter 20: Bittersweet Partings**

There had been no time for introductions or niceties when their small group finally reached Eryn Lasgalen. Messengers ahead of them had borne tidings of war and Elves from Rivendell would soon arrive to bolster the defenses, helping form a two-front war. The ensuing chaos gave Sariel little time to form impressions of the king and queen, though she had seen them twice, briefly. Her story was explained so many times that she was weary of both hearing it and helping tell it.

The only good thing about the tumult was that few paid attention to her, despite her role in causing the current preparations for war. The majority of the Elves had not directly heard about her assassination attempt on their prince, and while such information would always spread, there were other more important and urgent things for the Elves to consider. The news of their exiled former lord of Mirkwood was a shock, as was the fact that it was Aragorn who led the invading army. Gandalf had done his best to explain what Belderon had done over the centuries, though he said nothing of the Valar's involvement in Belderon's death, leaving it unclear what had finally killed him.

Hearing the story told from another's perspective had surprised Sariel. The things that mattered most to her, her mother and her sister's deaths, were mentioned briefly but for the most part deemed unimportant. She had spent such a long time traveling with Lianderthral to reach Nenuial, but took only a moment to describe how Legolas and the others had caught up with her after she had fled Lórien. Then, too, some things could not be left out, although she wished otherwise.

All in all, she felt as though she had few secrets left, but at the same time, perhaps she still had too many. Sariel and Lianderthral's abilities to channel the elements were not mentioned, for which she was grateful. At the same time, she could hardly bear to talk to the strangers around her. Every time someone addressed her by name, she had to wonder—how much did they know? It was all the more overwhelming in that she had never seen such numbers of Elves gathered in one place before. There were more of her kind here than had been in Lothlórien, more than she had seen in Imladris—and so Sariel kept her gaze on the floor, unable to stop herself from fearing that once they knew everything, once they had the time to consider what they had learned, they would all turn on her.

* * *

She was just one person in a group and she enjoyed feeling the kind of safety that comes from being invisible but useful. They were all busily fletching arrows to fill empty quivers, but the task was automatic to her, leaving her mind far too free to think. These days, these passing hours, there was nothing to think of other than war.

There had been a truth haunting her ever since she had reached Rivendell, and it was this: Sariel knew nothing of war. She was an assassin and accordingly, most of her weapons—the garrote, the stiletto—were tools of quiet, secret death. Though she had been trained in combat, her skills were best suited to the deadly efficiency of murder, not the melee of the battlefield. There was little reason for Belderon to think that his assassin would ever be in the confusion of the skirmish, where there were both allies and enemies all around.

Against an experienced warrior like Aragorn, Sariel harbored no illusion about her own chances. Skill could not always save her from being overpowered. Stealth and surprise were what she had used as an assassin, but war called for a different set of abilities—leadership, organization, strategy. Already, she was overwhelmed by the sheer number of Elves she saw and though she had seen part of Aragorn's army and heard estimates of their numbers, it was still more a thought than a reality in her mind.

The truth was that she was a killer, but not a warrior, however dubious the distinction might seem to those who knew little about it. It was strange how, in single combat, it was fair for the killer to be named murderer, whereas in a battle, where one might be outnumbered, the killer could be forgiven in the name of war. She might know how to kill for her freedom, but not how to fight for the survival of her own people. This fact was made all the more clear to her because everyone around her was experienced. Her companions had fought in wars before, great battles to defeat the forces of Sauron that she had only read about while hastily skimming over the records in the library at Lórien that one night. The Elves of Mirkwood also had a long history of conflict to push back the darkness threatening them from the South.

Everyone around her appeared to be calm. They were grim, but there was a purposefulness underlying the somber mood. It was as if they knew exactly what needed to be done, were doing it, and thus were determined to carry on with their lives no matter what the future held. How could they stand knowing that in the days to come, they might lose friends and family? Sariel knew no one here personally, but at the same time it distanced her from the others, who had so much more to risk.

Perhaps it was not the thought of war that made calm so elusive, but the agony of waiting in suspense, looking hard at the faces of her companions and wondering if she would see them again after the war. It was impossible not to wonder if she herself would survive and whether she would see familiar faces among the dead.

Fear had been a constant in her life; fear of Belderon and fear for herself and her family. After decades of such stifling fear, she had finally learned to let go of it. There was nothing to fear, so long as one did not care if one lived or died, and she had gradually reached that point. When her mother and Lessena had died, that should have made some things easier. Yet never in her life had she been afraid in quite this way…

Or maybe it was that never in her life had she had people whom she truly cared about, to fear _for._ War would not seem so frightening if it did not involve her personally. People lived, people died, but just as Sariel had felt nothing when she slit the throats of her victims, more often than not the average person cared nothing about the casualties of distant wars. They were not people, with faces and histories and families behind their names. They were simply numbers—twenty-two dead yesterday, ten more today. In the same way, Sariel's victims had been numbers, and still were, in her memory. It had made it easier for her to do what she had done.

The thought of this war filled her with uncertainties and doubts, but they were so vague she could not pin them down in order to banish them. If Arwen were there, she would have sought her out and asked for her counsel, but Arwen was far away in Rivendell and had enough troubles of her own. Sariel wished that Lianderthral had not needed to attend the meetings that King Thranduil and Gandalf called frequently. It was a selfish thought, though, when Lianderthral was so needed by others.

Legolas was away as well and he would hardly spare the time to listen to her. Fletching arrows reminded her of the archery contest that she had won, before so many bad things had happened. The year before felt so long ago, she had the sudden impression that it had not happened after all, that Legolas had never looked at her as if he wanted her. Their initial attraction seemed silly to her now, but it had been powerful enough to make her hesitant, and the actual moment of hesitation had changed everything.

Too much had happened since then that tainted whatever possibilities she could recall from her idyllic memories. They had not even spoken to each other since the odd conversation with Lianderthral. He might care for her still—she caught her breath, willing the ache to go away—but it was not enough. What beginning they had had, the connection she imagined existed between them…things were different now. Even had they not been on the brink of war, it was over before it had begun.

There was reason enough for her to see little of Legolas these days; he was, after all, prince of his people. Two armies had been formed from the Elves deemed able to fight, one operating under the leadership of Thranduil and a smaller one under their prince'sleadership, with Gandalf as advisor. In Lothlórien, Legolas' title had meant nothing to Sariel except as the indication that he was her intended target, but now she was starting to understand that it was far more than an inherited name.

The wood of the arrow shaft was smooth and strong beneath her fingers, the steel tip gleaming cruelly in the sunlight. She checked the fletched arrow for balance and knew it would fly straight and true. Rather than adding it to the general pile, she set it aside on a whim, thinking she would give it to one of her companions for luck, this elegant bit of flying death that she had finished with her own hands.

_

* * *

Strategy_, his father had emphasized over and over again, especially after the death of his sister. Without Rhiannon, all the burdens of his parents' expectations had fallen to him. Even as the shadow of Dol Goldur grew, the younger Legolas had never thought he would actually _need_ those lessons in warfare. Yet the history of Middle-Earth was a history of conflict, and the Elves were not always mere observers.

Mirkwood—no, his home was properly Eryn Lasgalen now, he remembered—would soon be under attack. There was nothing particularly new about that save for the size and scale. Their enemy was led by a brilliant man and the Silvan Elves were outnumbered. Elrond's reinforcements from Imladris would help even the numbers, but until they arrived, his people would be fighting alone.

Legolas looked up as Gandalf and his father entered the room with determined strides, along with a string of Elves and his other companions, with the exception of Sariel, Arwen, and Boromir. The latter two had remained behind in Imladris when they had left, though that group would be halfway to Eryn Lasgalen now as well. The king and wizard sat down at the long table, upon which Gandalf unrolled an exquisitely detailed map of Eryn Lasgalen. The Grey Mountains in the north, the Misty Mountains on the west, and Cekluin, the River Running, on the eastern borders of the vast forest… All of it was very familiar to Legolas' eyes and called up a fierce determination to protect his land and home. Red triangles on the map showed the possible routes that the orcs would take to approach them from the east. Movable blue darts would plan out a defensive line.

"Aragorn will most likely send his army through the High Pass, and then sweep up into the Eryn Lasgalen and to the east, in the direction of the Lonely Mountain. Thus, Thranduil and his larger force will form a defensive line _here, _along the borders of the forest, north of the Old Forest Road." Gandalf set a handful of the blue darts along the line he had just traced with his finger.

"Legolas and I, leading the smaller part of the Elves, will wait at the south of the Old Forest Road. We will let the Aragorn's army of orcs pass without hindrance."

Thranduil stood, taking over the lead, his dark grey eyes bleak. "My army will hold the orcs along the borders of Mirkwood for as long as possible, to give time for Elrond's reinforcements from Rivendell to arrive. When they do, Legolas' warriors will sweep upward as the Elves of Rivendell attack from the west. In effect, Aragorn's army will have been boxed in from the west, south, and east."

The Elves discussed this for a while longer, pointing out flaws in the Thranduil's defensive line and suggesting alternatives. Thranduil would lead roughly nine hundred Elves to form the defensive line, while Legolas had about seven hundred under his command. Their numbers were small compared to the orcs, but it was all they had.

"The armies will be divided into units, which consist of about twenty teams. Each team will have five Elves. The leaders of these subdivisions are essential because they will need to make many individual decisions. This war will not have any great battles. Instead, we will focus on a series of conflicts—hence the reason for small groups, which allow for faster mobility," Thranduil said. He reminded them of historical precedents, as Legolas let it wash over him, knowing each and every case his father brought up.

Instead, he looked at the others, seeing that their faces were filled with the same grim yet determined light. He knew what a series of small battles meant, and so did they. The war would be long and bloody, with the emphasis on the long. Yet Legolas also knew why Thranduil did not want to risk open battle against Aragorn's army: the Elves, even with reinforcements from Rivendell, would be outnumbered more than two to one. Belderon's orcs numbered around five thousand, not counting the trolls, whereas the Elves had at best two thousand.

There was also low morale, for the Elves were weary of fighting. Ever had they battled against the rise of Sauron's darkness from southern Mirkwood. While Legolas was away with the Fellowship, the forces of Sauron had invaded Mirkwood and Thranduil had lost many of his own in that long battle. Ever were the Elves of Mirkwood called on to defend their homes, and ever had they responded to the call, but it took a toll on the spirit, bit by bit.

"There is another matter, also…" Gandalf said, breaking Legolas' bleak thoughts. "The leader of the army we fight is Aragorn. Through evil he has been called from his grave and though Belderon has banished his memory, the spirit inside that man is still Aragorn, who has led armies to victory against evil. He was to have been crowned King of Gondor when he was slain in a battle against orcs at Lórien. It is my hope that no harm will befall him, yet if it is necessary, some sacrifices must be made."

Legolas' blood ran cold as he listened to the uncompromising words. This was Gandalf, who looked upon Aragorn almost as one might look upon a son. Gandalf, whom some called kingmaker for his role in Aragorn's return to the throne. The wizard was willing to sacrifice Aragorn if it meant that lives would be saved. The message was clear, but it wrapped around his heart as if the knowledge had iron vines. He had mourned for Aragorn once, must he do so yet again?

Until now, he had not truly considered the ramifications of facing Aragorn across the battlefield. Legolas had not spoken during the entire meeting, deferring to the more experienced Elves at the table, but now he stood and claimed his place. He chose his words carefully. "If it is necessary for our defense of home and hearth, Aragorn will be slain. Yet it is my wish that the word might spread to spare Aragorn if possible, for the sake of his friendship with the Elves and for the sake of Arwen Undómiel, his betrothed."

It was not much at all, and undoubtedly not enough. Yet Legolas swore into the perfect silence as he sat down, that if any hand must be the one to take the life of Aragorn, it would be his. He owed his friend that much: a quick second death. He owed it to Arwen, who was soon to come with her father's Elves, that Aragorn would not suffer. If only Aragorn regained his memories, if only they could be sure that a way existed for him to break free, to undo what Belderon had done. Arwen had consulted her father, yet even the Lord Elrond had no answers to give. The dead rising to life again—who had heard of such a thing? They did not even know how Belderon had done it. Yet if the curse on Aragorn could not be broken, as the leader of Belderon's army, his death would be essential.

Legolas knew, as they all did, that Aragorn would never surrender. Would Arwen come to fight this war to save Eryn Lasgalen, only to lose her love once again? He did not think she would be able to bear it a second, and final, time.

* * *

He found her putting herself through grueling training exercises, meant to build up speed and endurance. From her form, Lianderthral could tell that Sariel's injuries were still far from fully healed. She was slow, but the concentration on her face made her deadly, even if she was only beginning to regain her strength. The physical exertion had no doubt kept her thoughts away from the impending outbreak of war. He envied her that a little, since his own responsibilities were heavy, but then chastised himself for it. She had suffered more in the past few months than all of them put together.

"Sariel," Lianderthral said, though not to get her attention, for she had noticed immediately when he had stepped into the informal training area. He called her name only to signal that he wanted her to stop so he could talk to her.

The council must have ended but something in Lianderthral's demeanor told Sariel that the news would not come happily. He walked over to her and sat next to her while she took her rest. She frowned at her own harsh breathing and the stabbing pains that still bothered her. What Lianderthral would only add to her dark expression, so he cut to the point right away.

"This will come as a surprise to you, but you have heard of the army divisions, correct?" Seeing her nod, Lianderthral continued quickly. "It has been decided that you are to serve under Legolas' army as a team leader."

"What?" Sariel stared at Lianderthral, so surprised that she dropped the expressionless façade she had been cultivating. Now, disbelief was written all over her face.

He nodded slightly in confirmation. "For the sake of better communication, there are not many levels of leadership, Sariel. A team leader commands only four others and receives orders from unit leaders, who in turn obey Legolas or the King." Lianderthral's eyes were full of concern, but he kept the explanation simple. "You and your new group will be under Legolas' command, and all of you are to be moved to the south of the Old Forest Road as soon as possible."

"_I _am to lead–? Surely you jest, Lianderthral," Sariel cried, rising to her feet in agitation, thoughts still fresh on her mind from this morning. "I have never even fought in a war! Why would I be assigned as a leader?"

Lianderthral frowned at her, knowing she would hurt herself if she were not careful. "Please sit, Sariel. There are precious few who _can_ lead and we need all of them. It is an informal position for the most part, but the others will defer to your decisions in times of crisis to prevent confusion and complications. You will assuredly not be a teacher among students and you will still have to earn their respect."

"Where is Legolas? Does he know of this?" she demanded, ignoring his critical tone although she did return to her seat. Clearly, Lianderthral had not anticipated the strength of her reaction.

"Unit leaders choose the team leaders," he said reluctantly. "It is all right, Sariel, Vanidar is commanding your unit, and he will take his own orders from Legolas, who has Mithrandir to advise him. Thranduil first considered Gandalf for command, but surprisingly enough, the wizard suggested Legolas instead. Under Gandalf's eyes, he will gain experience without any serious mishaps."

Sariel was at a loss for words. Here she had been worrying over her inexperience, and Vanidar had chosen her to lead others! What was he thinking? She was in so many ways unsuitable for the task of leadership that the suggestion should have made her laugh. Yet such a laugh remained caught in her throat when Lianderthral looked at her like that.

"You will be better than you think, Sariel," he said somewhat encouragingly. When she did not respond, he continued, perhaps hoping to forestall more protests. "Gimli, of course, will be with Legolas." Briefly, he explained the attack and defense plans to Sariel, who sat numbly but at least listened to him.

"So I am to ready myself and find the others in my team now?" she asked when he was done.

"Yes. Although it is harder to travel and to station troops as well as set up camp during the night, we are short on time. Gandalf wants the move to take place at night." Lianderthral hesitated, then turned his head to face her directly, eyes taking in her dark, slim form. "I know that you have doubts, Sariel, but there are few that can match your abilities and Vanidar has enough to plan without needing to find another to step in your place. You may refuse, and it is ultimately your decision, but I hope you will accept."

She was still bewildered. "But why choose _me_, Lianderthral? Am I truly better than the others in this group?"

"You will have to find that out for yourself," he replied steadily. "Your temperament is far more suited to it than you think, and though you do not recognize your own strength, I believe—no, I _know_—that others will."

He did not tell her that he believed in her because that was not what she needed. Privately, Lianderthral agreed with Vanidar's choice because he was aware of the other Elf's intentions. Vanidar was a skilled healer, but not all of Sariel's injuries were of the flesh, and both Elves knew that what she needed most was to first regain her trust in her own abilities. Without that, how could she find any purpose in life?

Sariel was so preoccupied with what Lianderthral had said that they lapsed into silence for a while. Her aches and pains were forgotten. It was not until she looked up and found that Lianderthral was now avoiding her gaze that she realized he was leaving something out. "And you, Lianderthral? Where will you be?"

He clearly had expected the question since he answered a little too promptly, with seemingly rehearsed words. It told Sariel almost everything she needed to know. "I will be a unit leader with Thranduil's army in the northern defense line, so I do not expect to see you much, for perhaps a very long time." He had turned away from her and was looking at the floor in front of him, so she could only see the clean line of his profile. Lianderthral steeled himself before looking back at her, his gaze frank and direct. "Sariel, Thranduil and the others plan on a protracted war, a series of little battles. Our natural knowledge of the terrain will help us. The orcs outnumber us badly and Thranduil lost so many Elves during the War of the Ring that he cannot risk a full-out conflict. It may be a while before this is over, whether in victory or defeat."

The northern defense, she thought, sick at heart. She could tell from the way Lianderthral sat, tense and still, that he did not like his separation from the others. It was unsurprising that he would be a unit leader, given his knowledge of warfare tactics, and Sariel could easily imagine others trusting Lianderthral with their lives. She knew their trust would not be misplaced. But why would he be under Thranduil's command, rather than with the rest of them? Why send him north, when everyone he knew would be fighting in the south?

It had not been so long ago that he had all but vowed never to leave her side. She had been angry that he was foolish enough to make promises he could not keep. In Imladris, they had discussed it once more, with Legolas listening in from across the fire. A suspicion crossed Sariel's mind before she could stop it, and then she had to know. "On who's orders, Lianderthral?" she asked very quietly.

He feigned nonchalance; after months in his company, she could tell it was hardly surprising to him that she had asked. "It does not matter, Sariel. We are all assigned to where we will most be needed."

"Who assigned you to the northern army?" she pressed him.

Lianderthral kept his expression carefully neutral, even in profile. "Legolas asked it of his father."

There was little she could say to that, but it made her intensely angry all the same, and somehow it hurt, too. Sensitive to her emotions, Lianderthral actually laid a cautionary hand on her shoulder.

"Do you believe he would do this for the reasons you are thinking? Do you truly think so ill of him?"

Lianderthral's censure stung her almost as much as the suspicion itself. If she were right, then at least it proved Legolas cared, even after the last conversation between the three of them. But if she were wrong, then it was a terrible thing to have believed, even if she did so in part from desperation. "I do not know what to think anymore."

"Sariel, do not do this to yourself. War has always separated people and perhaps he felt I would be of more use helping his father. Thranduil respects what I have to offer."

_Meaning Legolas does not?_ she wondered. But regardless of the reason, it did not change the fact that he would be separated from them for most likely the entire duration of the war—and that, itself, was likely to be months.

They sat together in unhappy silence for a while.

"You should go," Lianderthral said at last, after it was clear there was nothing more either of them could add. "You will meet your new companions and depart soon for the south. I can tell you have tired yourself." He stood and seemed about to leave himself, shifting his weight from foot to foot in a rare sign of unease.

"Is this farewell, then?" Sariel asked, standing abruptly as well. She looked at him closely, trying to commit to memory every detail, the way his dark eyes caught the light ever so often, so the green shone clear and bright, the high cheekbones and austere nobility of his jaw. She was acutely conscious that if something happened during the war, she might never see him again, not as he was now. _Alive._

He took her hands in his and Sariel's cold fingers warmed as his larger hands covered them. "Let us not speak of farewells. I have something for you."

"Wait," she forestalled, remembering. "There is something I want to give you, too." She reached for the bag she had brought with her for her practice session. She had come immediately here after fletching for the better part of the day, and she was now glad that she had not stopped by the room she had been given, for she still had the arrow from earlier, half of it protruding from her bag.

Lianderthral watched as she drew out the arrow and held it out to him. Rather than take it, he gave her something wrapped bulkily in fading and torn parchment—a finely carved wooden case of some sort, long and narrow, perhaps made for a weapon. When he still made no move to take her gift, she thrust it closer to him. He placed his hand over hers and curled her fingers back around the thin wooden shaft, holding it horizontally so that the arrow divided them, the arrowhead pointing away from both.

He was a decent archer, but the bow was not a weapon he usually used. They both knew it. "Keep it," he said gently. "It was meant for another."

Sariel's eyes prickled, but she tilted her chin upward and blinked hard, fighting the knot in her throat. He did not sound hurt or angry, just weary.

"Open the case," Lianderthral urged. His eyes flickered down her body and then away. She still covered herself from head to toe; even the collar of her shirt was high, covering the healing marks. He still vividly remembered the raw, red cuts that had encircled her neck when they had found her, a macabre necklace of torture.

Sariel had the odd feeling that she knew what the gift was. They all had few possessions, after all. Something tugged at her memory, though she had tried to lock away that night—that quiet, dark night that she had walked away from them and into hell. The top part of the case was hinged and she opened it carefully, revealing the perfect rose within, nestled in dark blue fabric. She was not the only one who had been gifted from the gardens of Lórien, though once blood-stained, the petals of her own rose would never return to virgin white. The flower in the box now was as pure as moonlight.

"We have all made a mess of things, have we not?" Lianderthral said without rancor, looking at the rose rather than her. Her head spun with questions, but none she could vocalize. She had given her own rose away the night she had walked back into Belderon's fortress and had never taken it back. Did _he_ still have it? Was this meant to replace it?

"Why?" Her fingers trembled and she gripped the box more tightly, forcing them still. The silky perfection of the petals tempted her to touch; she held a powerful bit of magic in her hands, a rose arrested in bloom. A heady perfume was already beginning to scent the air.

He shrugged. "I believe that given the chance, people can change if they want to, Sariel."

She thought she understood. He wanted to give her the chance and he knew she could not refuse. He was still her mentor and teacher, in more than one way, and he hoped to lead her to some kind of redemption. Though she could not believe in it, she did not have the heart to argue with him, not tonight. Not when it might be the last time they ever saw each other.

Sariel closed the parchment-wrapped box again, hiding the flower from sight. The arrow was much longer than the case, but both went into her bag. She did not want to think about what they meant. "If this is not farewell, then what is it?"

"Until we meet again," Lianderthral told her. He looked deep into her eyes as if he, too, were etching her face into his memory, though her features were not what he would remember in the end, he knew.

"Until we meet again," echoed Sariel softly, hoping with all her heart that he might be protected from any harm. The words slipped out. "Please come back, Lianderthral."

A few hours later, the sky darkened with roiling clouds and it began to rain, as if one of them, or both, had lost control. Perhaps it was only the changing of the seasons from the cold frost of winter to mild spring, for it continued overnight, leaving the earth dark, damp, and burgeoning with green the next morning. The drops that fell on the cloaked riders departing for the north were nearly as warm as tears.

* * *

A day later, Sariel looked at the Elves she was to command, four strangers who she would eat, sleep, and fight beside over the next few months. She hoped that her trepidation was not obvious. It was a small mercy that none of them knew her past and that none of them cared. In war, one sword was as good as another; she could be princess or servant and it would not matter.

Sariel got to know each well enough. Although she was the leader of their team, they treated her more as an equal, as Lianderthral had said they would. They had moved down south with their unit and the other teams, though they had not yet moved out to set up camp in the area that they would be responsible for. They used each other for combat practice and all took part in the drills intended to cause the most damage with whatever weapon was at hand. Though Sariel was not at full strength, none of them questioned outright the wisdom of her appointed position, so she was grateful.

The first that she had gotten to know was the one who was helping her heal faster. Athelas was skilled with sword and yet very kind, perhaps because he was a healer by occupation. His passive manner and gentle voice belied the strength in his savage attacks. It surprised Sariel to find that he was so vengeful even in paired practice, but he accepted her most readily of them all. It was clear that by nature, he preferred for others to lead and to make the crucial decisions. Was it because he had made so many hard decisions himself for those whose lives he would save? His appearance was as unassuming as his personality; he had the dark hair and grey eyes of most Silvan Elves, nothing to truly set him apart in a crowd.

It was an interesting and rather disturbing combination, the mix of healer and killer instinct, though it almost reminded Sariel of herself. Who knew the boundary between life and death better than a healer, after all? She knew how to heal nearly as well as she knew how to kill; Belderon had ensured that her training was thorough. After some time, she realized Athelas fought with such ferocity because he wanted death to be quick and as painless as possible.

She and Athelas would serve as the medics should anyone be injured, as undoubtedly someone would. Since they had come from vastly different regions, many of the medicines they used were aimed at the same effect, but composed of different plants and combinations. They could compare their methods and exchange their knowledge. It was from one of these informal discussions that Sariel found out that his name was the name of an herb also called _kingsfoil_, which had many healing properties.

The other one of her group that immediately befriended her was Ithildin, a fanciful name that meant _starmoon_. He was as pretty as his name suggested, though he also had the strangest hair she had ever seen. It was as dark as any average Elf's hair, but Ithildin's had strands of silver-white mixed in, giving his hair a peculiarly streaked appearance. As Elves did not age as humans did, Sariel was fairly sure that this two-toned hair was unique among their race, even without having met very many of their kind. Ithildin informed her that it had been that way even during his childhood and then changed the subject, which was something that frequently happened with him.

Though conversations with him left Sariel feeling bewildered most of the time, he had an open nature that reflected an almost childish exuberance. It was hard for her to pin down his personality, since his moods seemed as varied as the moon's phases and his interests as mercurial as the silver in his hair. She was certain that he was older than her, yet he acted younger much of the time. Then, when she least expected it, he would become serious. What really mattered, of course, was that his knifefighting skill was nearly on par with hers, if she had been healthy. As it was, he was remarkably fast and faster than her, since she was gravely out of practice.

Then there was Simbelmynë, who was good with every weapon, a solid fighter, but one with a sharp temper. He was very old and followed Sariel's lead when it suited him, which was still most of the time. It was clear that her inexperience mattered to him, and since all of his grounds for criticism were true, Sariel did not try to impose her will. He had fought off Sauron's forces and even bore the mark of it. The first time Sariel had met Simbelmynë, she had found herself staring at the scar that ran from his pointed right ear to the middle of his chin, tracing the line of his jaw. A glare from his grey eyes quickly dissuaded her from asking how he had received the scar and though she was curious about his name, she refrained from asking on this aspect as well.

The last of her group was a superb archer, better than Sariel, who had not trained in months. Sariel had to admit to herself, though, that even had she been practicing her archery, she would have been hard set to beat Eros. She would have presented a challenge even to Legolas, whose skill had been much admired even in Lothlórien. All five of them seemed to have been chosen with careful attention to their strengths and weaknesses, so Eros complimented the rest of the team quite well. She, too, was unusual in appearance, for her hair was shorn drastically short, as if she were a human Man. One of the others had told Sariel some tale that Eros had cut her traditionally long locks out of some pledge, or perhaps it was some grief. It was startling every time Sariel laid her eyes on her. Clearly, she had gained some amount of fame from it, though people talked about her with genuine respect and admiration.

Eros seemed well known and loved, but of the group, Sariel knew her the least. She joined the group relatively late, after the rest of them had already gone south. More surprisingly still was that Eros had come directly from Gimli and Legolas, so it seemed that she had some authority. She was not hostile to Sariel, but gave the impression that she did not entirely admire their leader, at least at first.

Sariel should have expected it, but it still took her aback to hear Eros using Legolas' name so familiarly when the other female in their group had just joined them. Yet of course, Legolas was well known to the people here in his home; they were _his _people, after all. From the way that the others addressed Eros, it was also clear that she was a lady of noble blood, though Sariel had realized that the Elves of Eryn Lasgalen were mostly informal with ranks and titles. More importantly, Eros had also brought the news that the teams would spread out across the land tomorrow.

_Tomorrow_. She had not even seen many of her old companions, though she knew it was unreasonable to hope for personal goodbyes. Time was moving so fast, and Sariel felt helpless in its grasp. She must ensure that they were ready to fight together, her little group of Elves, and she wondered if she was up to the task. She wondered if she was a true leader, or if her ineptitude and lack of experience would result in consequences fatal for these Elves who had entrusted their lives to her.

_This is my test_, she thought, and only hoped that she could prove herself.

* * *

He sat in the darkness of his room with the rose held loosely between his slender fingers, idly touching the velvet softness of the dark petals. While unpacking, he had found the rose nestled at the bottom of one of his saddlebags and had taken it out, not knowing what to do with it. If only he had known her intentions when she had given it to him. If only he had not driven her away…would she have still gone to Belderon?

Now Legolas sought solitude, unwilling to hear more of the others' incessant discussions and predictions for the war looming but a few days ahead. The moonlight that spilled into the room through the long slits in the walls turned everything into a blue-grey, but the lack of light simply bleached the deep red of the rose into dull black.

It was still a perfect rose, despite its chilling hue, the red a little too dark for romance, too close to the color of blood spilled at night. Beauty, flawed by darkness. Could he keep such a thing, or should he return it to its owner?

One early morning before dawn she would ride away with her band of Elves, as some of the bands positioned farther away had already done, and Legolas would have to entrust her safety to her companions, rather than to himself. He would have to face the fact that she might take injury, that perhaps he would never see her alive again, and that she might lay slain on the battlefield for days before news would even come to him of her death.

There were numerous valid reasons why he was fighting this war. But his heart knew only one, however illogical it was—he was fighting it for her. Because every orc he killed was one less to haunt her, because each time he beat back the vestiges of Belderon's dominion it was one more step for her towards freedom from her past. He had never felt so helpless as when he had touched her and washed away the blood that Belderon had left on her, counting each cut and burn he had inflicted on her body. Legolas had never felt so much rage, so much anger, and though Belderon was gone, far from his reach, his foul creatures remained. Aragorn remained a constant worry in the back of his mind, but oh, he would enjoy this taking of life as he never had before.

Legolas wished he could keep her safe, but knew it was impossible. He knew, too, that soon there would be many partings, but none as painful as this.

A brisk knock on his door startled Legolas out of his unhappy thoughts and he rose to open the door.

"My prince," the newcomer murmured, but when he looked up the surprise on his face told Legolas that his own expression was betraying his low spirits.

"What news?" he asked tersely. He did not need to explain himself.

"You asked for word of when the team under your previous companion, Sariel, will depart," the messenger said, unperturbed by his tone. "Tomorrow she and her Elves will ride out. News has come with the new position of Aragorn's army. After discussing the intelligence that our scouts have brought in, the King has given orders."

For a brief moment Legolas was overwhelmed with the gamut of emotions that ran through him quicker than lightning, but he was careful not to show it when he looked at the Elf. "Thank you. You may leave." The Elf nodded slightly in return and the door swung shut silently as Legolas closed it and then leaned on it.

Tomorrow. _So soon_? his heart cried, but he knew it was not soon at all. The war could not be delayed forever. If only he could keep Sariel away from battle, or if she could fight by his side—but he knew already she would never consent to stay in safety and it would be too much of a distraction for them both.

He could not keep her from leaving him, but he would not let her leave without a goodbye.

* * *

He had known where she was all this time, so Legolas found it easy to slip away to her camp, thought it was the middle of the night. No doubt the guards wondered what he was doing, but once they found that the intruder was their long-absent prince they let him pass without comment. He did not recognize many of them and this new knowledge was distressing; he had not been gone so long, had he? There was a time when his bond to his people was stronger, when he had loved nothing more than the vast wilderness of Mirkwood's great trees, and the fierce Wood-Elves that lived therein. If they lost now, he would never have the chance again.

It was to his good fortune that Ithildin was the guard of the camp that night. The fair Elf with silver and black hair startled at the appearance of Legolas, clearly never expecting to meet directly with the Elf that had asked for him to risk his life in war. More regrets washed over Legolas before he told himself that he was not being fair; Ithildin did not fight out of loyalty to the royal family, or if he did, it was not simply that. He fought for the sake of his love for his home.

"I wish to see Sariel," he said simply. Again, surprise gleamed in Ithildin's dark eyes, but he nodded. Though Sariel had not spoken of Legolas in the time that she had been with her Elves, all knew that she was one of his companions. They had heard parts of the story. Ithildin knew more than most; he knew a little of the role she had in the chain of events leading to this war.

"She is resting in there." With the exception of the early rainstorm, winter's chill had not completely loosened its grip on the great forest though it was nearing spring. The tents were set up to ward against the elements. Legolas hesitated, but mindful of Ithildin's curious eyes, he entered the tent silently.

The shivery sound of knives being drawn told him that Sariel was awake even before his eyes found her in the darkness. She seemed to know that it was him the next moment because she relaxed, grabbing a branch and setting fire to the end of it with a touch and a brief look of concentration. Her casual use of power did not discomfit Legolas as it might have, for he was too busy looking at her.

She had been much more beautiful in other times, as when she wore a fine gown to be introduced to the Lady Galadriel. Yet there was something about her now that captivated his attention so that even though he knew he was staring, he could not turn away. He was glad, at least, that she looked much healthier than when he had seen her last—which was far too long ago.

Slowly she rose to her feet in the cramped space, looking at him inquiringly. "Why are you here?"

"I—" he heard himself stammer out some excuse of needing to check on the leaders of the teams and felt his cheeks flush with heat. There were nearly countless teams. The distant attitude he had maintained toward her since the night Lianderthral had talked of soul mates was burning up as surely as the branch in her hand.

"I am to leave tomorrow," she said finally. "The news came today with your friend." She said the last like it was almost a question.

He nodded and took her hands, holding them tightly. The thought that she would be gone—so _soon_—drove him to desperation. She let him do as he wished, though she looked up at him, sensing his mood even as he struggled to regain some of his customary composure.

Maybe she felt his need and responded, or maybe it was because she had been thinking of him when he had suddenly appeared by her side, as if sent to her by her wishes. Only half aware of what she was doing, Sariel pulled her hand away silently. He let her go reluctantly but then tensed in surprise as she boldly traced the curve of his face and then slid her hand up, touching the sensitive tips of his ears. "Sariel…"

"Shhh," she whispered, afraid to destroy this moment. Her fingertips hovered over the shell of his ear, the faint, teasing touch making him shiver. "Did you come because you knew I would be gone, come tomorrow?"

"Yes." The answer escaped his lips before Legolas realized it, and he tried to make light of it, to put less import on the answer. He was afraid she would draw away from him, would shut him out as she had done before. Her dark clothes made her nearly disappear into the shadows of the tent, though the flame at the tip of the burning branch cast flickering light over both their faces.

"My lovely Sariel, will you give me a lover's parting?" Despite the words, his tone was mocking and stung her the way he meant for it to, though his sarcasm was as much directed toward himself as her. The possessive endearment ridiculed the painful tension that existed between them even after all these days apart. At the same time, underlying his words was a truth that he could not conceal.

The quick retort she had been about to give died before she voiced it, and instead, she smiled brilliantly up at him. His breath caught in his throat and he wondered when, if ever, he had seen her like this. Without meaning to, he drew even closer to her so that they were separated only by a little space.

"If I said yes?" Her voice was low and husky, and it took him a long moment to realize that she was answering him. Unable to resist and frustrated by so many days of self denial, he bent to kiss her, surprised when she parted her lips willingly. He was afraid he was letting his desire override her fear. He recalled how she avoided being touched and started to draw back. But no, she would not let him hesitate; she tasted him even as he tasted her, the hot melding of their mouths erasing other concerns.

When they broke apart, each breathing hard, he wondered for a moment if this was his fantasy or hers. It was too late for games. "Say yes," he whispered against the delicate tip of her ear, unable to explain that it was not just her body that he wanted right now, but something more, far more. The words he had used to mock them both echoed in his mind, the slight, teasing variations so bittersweet. _Lovely, lover's_...he ached to hear the last word from her lips.

She knew what he meant but was half out of her mind, both far too willing and yet unable to say anything. Instead, she kissed him again, a heated exploration, while her hands somehow found a way to slip under his tunic and up his back, caressing bare skin all the way. She reveled in the way that his eyes darkened and then fluttered shut entirely, as she let him—she _let_ him—wrap his arms around her in an embrace that was almost too tight. She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder in a gesture of acceptance that was a gift. They remained like that for several heartbeats. To be so close and yet deny themselves anything more tested both their control. They knew, too, there might never be another chance, but it was not the right place, nor the right time.

He loved her so much that it would have been impossible to deny it if she had asked him then. If she had asked him for anything, he would have done it. She did not ask. He wanted to tell her that she could not leave tomorrow, that he would forbid it—but it was exactly his feelings for her that made him realize that he could not keep her by his side for his own selfish reasons. He understood that she needed to find her own sort of independence, even if it meant she was away from him.

As quickly as that, her passion turned to other strong emotions. Her eyes were shining, but when he asked her what was wrong, she shook her head soundlessly, and then he understood anyway. No hesitation, no shyness—it was only the desperation of the war that brought them together now, that so quickly breached the insurmountable barriers normally between them. Everything was out of control. They had not spoken to each other, had not even seen each other, and now this was…too fragile, too unreal.

"Will you stay with me tonight?" she whispered. He could see how much it cost her to ask. There was so much loneliness in those words, and he had put that loneliness there. He could not stand it. It was with a trembling heart that Legolas brushed a finger against her soft lips to show her he understood, and then took her into his arms as they lay down, as lovers would. They exchanged chaste kisses but did not talk, content to feel each other's presence and warmth. Silence was safer than speech.

Despite everything, Sariel fell asleep before long, worn out in spirit and unable to resist the comfort of being together with him. Legolas lay awake, cherishing the fact she slept pressed against his side, trusting him.

Yet far too soon—it was only a matter of hours—she woke again and moved enough to let him know he had to let go. They drew apart out of necessity. Outside, the sun would be inexorably rising, the early rays transforming the sky into a mural of watercolors. She briskly combed out her black hair so that it fell in waves down to her hips, and then his deft fingers took over, helping her plait the glossy strands into a single braid. She pinned it around her head like a coronet and then, too suddenly, it was time for him to leave.

She hoisted her heavy quiver across her lap and carefully selected the arrow that she had fletched with him in mind. She gave it to him, eyes dark with unspoken thoughts. "May you never have need to use it."

He took it silently and then even with it held tight in his hand, he crushed her against him, breathing in her light scent, maddeningly provocative. Their mouths met in a wild kiss that lasted until they were both out of breath and he could almost feel the pounding of her heart against his.

"Sariel—"

"Goodbye," she said firmly, with only a slight hitch of her voice. There was much that needed to be said, but the desperation of the night was weak in face of the morning.

She turned away, and he left.

* * *

"What is it that you do, Ithildin?" Sariel asked the next night. "What did you do before you left your lady and came here to defend your home?"

"I study the stars," Ithildin replied lightly, tossing his peculiar black and silver hair over his shoulder in a graceful, though practiced, movement. "Among other things."

She turned to him in surprise. Not for the first time, she wondered if she had been chosen to lead a group of misfits. None of them were what she thought of as ordinary, least of all herself. "So do the stars ever tell you anything?"

"Many things," he said mysteriously, but his flippancy faded into a more somber expression, one that she would have expected from a scholar.

Some perverse fancy led her to continue. "And have you seen the conclusion of this war written upon the sky?"

"Wars never conclude, Sariel Nightstar," Ithildin said wisely. She had not known others knew her name and it was startling to hear herself addressed thus.

"The stars appear so close to each other and we trace our constellations upon the sky as if they truly were, and yet they are eons apart in time and distance," he continued. "So it is with knowledge; the more connections we make, the more connections cannot be made. There are worlds out there, Sariel, that we only imagine."

She had underestimated him, Sariel realized, because his nonchalance was rare among the elder Elves. "How do you know there other worlds out there, Ithildin?" she asked impulsively. "How can you believe that a pinprick of light is a world?"

He did not correct her question, although she had posed it as a belief, not as knowledge. In the end, the best scholars knew that even truth was a kind of belief. "Even _this_ world contains many worlds, does it not?" he replied, teeth flashing white in a brief smile. "Your world, my world. Sometimes it is the same world, sometimes it is not. We are not so different from the stars, each of us our own little world."

She did not know what to think of that. "It sounds like a very solitary existence."

Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by Eros, her face wan and tired.

"There is news being passed between the groups," she said softly. "Aragorn's army is very close. Near dawn they will pass us by and advance up north until they meet the King's defensive line, where he will hold them as long as possible to give the Elves of Rivendell time to maneuver into position behind them."

"Our orders?" Sariel asked, feeling her heart give an odd little beat of excitement.

"Vanidar bids all to stay as quiet as possible and wants every team to send in a report on their exact location. We are to remain hidden, naturally," Eros said without sarcasm. "The battles will commence late tomorrow in the north with King Thranduil, and at the latest, a day from tomorrow we will be fighting ourselves, pushing northward as the King drives them south."

Sariel closed her eyes. The moment that she had been dreading was here. Eros' last words only completed what she already knew.

"The war has begun."

**

* * *

Please review**!

Finalized _July 2010_


	21. Dying Valor

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

Note: Before the critical or curious ask why I chose 'Eros' as a name, let me offer a partial explanation. I figure that if Tolkien uses Elros and Saeros, I can't be that far off.

**Chapter 21: Dying Valor**

In the two months that followed the orcs' initial invasion of Eryn Lasgalen, Sariel only saw Vanidar out of all her old companions, and only once. Just as the Elves had expected, the orcs had broken up into loose bands that capriciously assaulted the borders of the forest. Even Aragorn's leadership was not enough to overcome the baser nature of Belderon's hordes, so though the Elves were outnumbered, they were more efficiently organized. Eros explained to Sariel that without someone like Belderon, it was nearly impossible for a large army such as those that Sauron had commanded. After months of observation, it was also clear to the Elves that whatever breeding experiments Belderon had done to make the orcs tolerant of sunlight, they were not as strong or intelligent as the Uruk-hai that Saruman had created.

It took a few skirmishes before Sariel finally understood why the Elves were grouped as they were. With only five Elves in a team, they constantly risked being outnumbered, but the teams had the mobility needed to maintain such a large defensive line. When a team encountered a group of orcs whose numbers they could not handle, other teams of Elves were close enough and fast enough to be called in.

Even so, large parts of the forest simply went unwatched. The goal of the orcs, after all, was simply to destroy. It was much harder to preserve Eryn Lasgalen as home, especially since the forest itself was still recovering from past warfare. Once, it had been Greenwood the Great, before it became Mirkwood and before the shadow of Dol Guldur had fallen upon it, so that the Men called it the forest of great fear. Now it was simply the Wood of Greenleaves, cleansed of evil by Galadriel, and Thranduil would not let it be tainted again.

The war was not as Sariel had imagined, at all. There were quick conflicts when two opposing bands met and nearly always, the fighting ended when one group was more or less completely killed. Sometimes a few orcs would try to run, but they were almost always brought down from afar by archers. Life became a constant cycle of vigilance, interrupted by brief, intense fighting. Though Eros, serving as their team's messenger, often brought news, it was difficult for Sariel to even tell whether there was any progress. She focused solely on keeping her group safe and ready for all situations; this seemed to be what was asked of her as a team leader, after all.

For two long, seemingly endless months, they had kept guard over their part of the forest. They spent most of the time in travel, constantly taking turns scouting for intruders. Three times, they joined up with another group of Elves, either having called for help or having been summoned themselves. Sariel soon realized that if the fighting continued the way it was not, the war could last for several more months, perhaps even half a year or more. Tension had been building recently, however, since many of the intelligence reports indicated that the orcs were massing again. The King and his commanders were certain that a surprise attack was imminent. The trick was to gather enough information to ensure it would not be a surprise.

Two months felt more like two years when Sariel thought about her new companions. Not friends, not really—even in her limited understanding of friendship, Sariel understood that they had not chosen each other, which she felt was an important part of true friendship. They worked well together after the first few weeks, however, and there was a growing bond between all of them. It may have formed out of need and healthy survival instincts, but it was there nevertheless. It was, Sariel supposed, the mutual knowledge that there was a good chance the last people they might see alive would be one another. It did not matter that they had hardly known each other before the war had started. They fought together, looked out for each other, and faced the constant horror of death together.

Everyone knew what was expected of them and Sariel eventually relaxed into her role. She was not called on much—the others more often than not directed themselves, so she was simply in charge of knowing where everyone was and what they were doing. In battle, they moved as a team, though they still fended mostly for themselves, as independent spheres of action. It was not as though the Elves suffered no casualties, but Belderon's army had come onto their land and threatened their homes. The orcs may have tried to burn down the trees, but they would always be at a disadvantage in seeking to attack Elves in their most secure ground, the forest.

Sariel had heard the two-toned warning whistle so many times that it no longer startled her. She had heard, too, Simbelmynë's roar of fury and Ithildin's blood-chilling battle cry. She knew exactly how good each of them was; she had seen all of their strengths and weaknesses. In turn, she had earned a little of their respect, if not their trust. She had healed considerably more over the past two months and they had judged her skills and found them satisfactory, just as she had judged theirs.

The five of them were hardly ever all together, so it was a while before Sariel realized just how close she had grown to each of them. She supposed it was inevitable, but while there were always minor frictions, there was genuine affection between the Elves, too. Even Simbelmynë joined the conversations voluntarily, though his prideful stare still dared Sariel to ask why he had been named after a pretty white flower. Once he had seen that her inexperience would not immediately get them all killed—it had taken three weeks, at the very least—he had been more accepting of her.

Sariel had regarded Eros with some trepidation, somehow more concerned about what this Elf would think of her than the others in their team. If Eros thought badly of her, though, she never showed it. Instead, Sariel was left with a sort of frustrated longing—they were as close as any of them were, but though Sariel had perhaps desired, or even expected, to share more with the only other female in the group, it was not exactly so. It was somewhat foolish, after all, to have even assumed that a shared gender would make any difference whatsoever, yet Eros seemed to be different in a way that made Sariel wish, sometimes fiercely, that she could ask some of the many questions she had. They talked, but not about the things Sariel wanted to know. For once in her life, she wanted to confide in someone, if only because she thought the memories of her last meeting with Legolas would drive her mad. It was a secret too great to easily tell, and though Eros was a friend…

It was still not the same. At night, when she could breathe a sigh of relief after hearing a scout's report that all was at peace, Sariel still wondered where her former companions where. She did not pray for their safety and yet she was always waiting for news. Lianderthral was in the north with the King, while Legolas remained the commander of the southern army, Gimli and Gandalf with him. Vanidar led her unit, so that was one connection she could hold onto. She had heard that Arwen and Boromir had come with the Elves of Imladris, though Sariel was not sure where they lent their aid. One of the benefits of having her friends in such high positions of leadership was that she could be reassured that she would hear if anything was amiss. If _she _disappeared, the reverse would not necessarily be true.

Bit by bit, too, she fell in love with the forest she was defending and with the cause that she had chosen. She did not believe she could atone for her past and yet some part of her recognized that with every day that passed, she was reaching toward a future, if merely by living. In the eyes of the four Elves that followed her, she was not a victim. She was neither Belderon's pet, nor just Legolas' assassin. She did not know who or what she was, but she knew she was no longer as she used to be.

It was Athelas who put it into words for her on evening, after he came in from checking the southern and eastern border of what she had almost begun to think of as _their_ part of Eryn Lasgalen. Athelas had always been more willing to talk to her than any of the others, even Ithildin, perhaps because along with the knowledge of what she once was, he alone of all of them had seen the wounds that Belderon had left on her.

"We are here to stay," he said, after finishing his report. "We will go home someday, Sariel, after we have killed the very last evil thing that Belderon has sent after us. We are Elves of Eryn Lasgalen and we only need to stand our ground."

It was not until much later that she realized he had included her as one of them. By then, it was already too late.

* * *

"SARIEL!" Eros shouted, even as she raised her fingers to her lips. Two shrill blasts of sound cut through the forest, slicing above the frantic sound of her horse's hoofbeats. There was no need for words, not yet, when the whistle had already conveyed the most important information.

Within moments, Sariel was in the saddle, urging Myste into a full gallop after Eros' fleeting form. A surge of mingled dread and excitement filled her, her body loosening for combat, and for a moment she almost reveled in the sensations, the sheer knowledge that _this_ was what they were here to do. It had been over a week since they had seen combat and there was no way one could train for the reality of it. She held nothing back now, her motions free and fluid with the sheer joy of a physical challenge.

Myste drew even with the other horse's withers and Sariel saw Eros turn her head back slightly. The other Elf's honey-gold eyes were alight, her face flushed from exertion, though the heightened color took nothing away from the sharpness of her cheekbones. For a moment, Sariel let the image sear itself into her memory—but there was no time to look, to properly appreciate the sheer vitality that Eros always brought.

"How many?" Sariel demanded, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of their flat-out gallop.

Eros gave a disgusted shake of her head that made the sun dance over her short curls. "They surprised us. More than twenty, perhaps twenty five."

"Ithildin?"

"With Simbelmynë. Both retreating to the southern rendezvous point. Athelas rode for the team in the southeast."

Sariel bared her teeth, an expression both disgusted and aggressive. She should have seen this coming. Though they had each made pragmatic choices for action, her tiny team was further split. She turned away from Eros, though they were both thinking of the night before, when Sariel had sent Eros to another team for news, in place of the usual northern patrol. What had possessed her to become so careless?

_No time for hesitation_, Sariel reminded herself. Even now, Simbelmynë and Ithildin were fighting alone, facing down an entire company of orcs. Another voice inside her head whispered, _you should have planned for this. Tactical errors can break a team._

It was true. Everything depending on the speed and mobility of these groups of five Elves, and the main function of the leader was to keep track of all positions, at all times—managing the other Elves as if they were pieces on a chessboard, aligning them in defensive lines based on each individual's talents and capabilities.

There—just ahead—there! Sariel reached over her head to draw an arrow out of her quiver and in the next breath, drew, aimed, and fired. Beside her, Eros mirrored her motions, their arrows piercing through the air and armor with deadly precision. No hesitation, no remorse.

If they had come even a few moments later, it would have been too late. Simbelmynë and Ithildin were fighting back to back, savagely holding off the orcs, but they were surrounded. Sariel and Eros each picked off one more victim from the sides before the orcs broke apart their own ring of enclosure, the resulting chaos making it unsafe for long-distance weapons.

No matter, as both females had joined the battle already, dismounting rather than leading their horses into certain death. Sariel took it all in with a glance and along with the gleam of light on Ithildin's mottled hair, she saw that their defense had disintegrated. It had happened before but only once, and not so badly. They now fell apart, fighting in their own spheres of death, rather than moving effectively as a unit. Each skilled, each defending themselves—but against such odds, disunity meant that they would all die.

She screamed at them, trying to rally them around her, trying also to fight her way to Simbelmynë, but there were too many blocking her way. Suddenly she found herself next to Ithildin, his twin knives disabling opponents as effectively as her sword did. Still, neither of them could easily deal killing blows, not against the sturdy armor and brutish strength of the orcs. At most, they were holding off their opponents. At a slight break in between attacks, Sariel scanned the carnage before her: even after a handful had already been taken down, with roughly four orcs for each one of them, they needed reinforcements, badly.

Eros had joined up with Simbelmynë, but her movement was slow—she had been injured. It was all that Sariel had time to note before Ithildin let out a cry of rage and pain, faltering as a sword found its way through his guard and slashed across his arm. Sariel whirled, almost too slow, narrowly escaping a blow that would have shattered her collarbone and more. It was only then that she realized that she and Eros should have entered the fray in order to cover their retreat, not in some vain hope of beating the odds.

Her eyes met honey-gold for a panicked instant, more than ten feet between them. Despite Eros' familiar features, Sariel almost did not recognize her. The vivacious Elf who possessed the natural grace of those who had been born to wealth and status was gone. Now her full lips were pressed into a grim line, the light in her eyes not joyful, but steely, almost cold. There was no surrender in her.

The next few minutes passed in a blur. It was Eros' voice that rang out, calling for organized retreat. It was Eros who forced them all to renewed and tireless efforts, the orcs falling back in surprise from their suddenly ferocious onslaught. With indomitable gestures and sheer strength of will, the Elf manipulated their individual positions until they became a functioning team again. Bit by bit, they regained enough control of the situation to ultimately withdraw from it.

They arrived suddenly and swiftly, Athelas and the southeastern team slipping through the forest as tall, lethal green shadows. Six more Elves. Between one breath and another, the skirmish completely changed. If the orcs had been brutish, the newcomers were brutal.

Within minutes, the orcs had scattered, nearly a fourth of them falling almost immediately after that, the feathered ends of arrows sprouting from vulnerable points in the neck or from eyes pierced through. Out came the swords and longknives, ruthless hands wielding the weapons. The orcs had no information to offer, so none were left alive.

It was a nearly elegant end to what might have been the day they all died.

* * *

Simbelmynë was furious. Sariel found his anger easier to face than Ithildin's silence or Athelas' unconcealed disappointment. They had tentatively given their lives over to her, relying on her judgment. That trust had been damaged, though not entirely broken. Regret was like a stone lying on the bottom of her stomach, its uncomfortable weight only increasing when they continued to follow her orders, consigning her disgrace to the past. Sariel could not forget. She had lost command, had not been able to adapt quickly enough when their plans and practices failed to be sufficient.

"Now it will not happen again," Athelas told her, but his words were little comfort, though she truly had learned her lesson well.

"It should never have happened in the first place," she reminded him, refusing to absolve herself.

Only Eros maintained her effervescent cheer in the aftermath, and somehow it was this incident that had done what Sariel had unsuccessfully tried to do before. It broke the careful distance that Eros had maintained between them, until it was to Eros that Sariel instinctively turned for a second opinion, or for the reassurance of agreement. Eros had always been her second, but now they shared the burden of leadership in some ways, though Eros continued to defer to her in all the most important matters.

It eased some tight knot in the core of her that Sariel had barely even realized was there. It was to Eros that Sariel finally broke her silence, telling her about Legolas, Lianderthral, and the rest. She maintained some deception still, for she kept her words dispassionate and the stories short, offering no more than bits and pieces of herself. Still, it was more than she had ever extended to anyone, except for the very people she spoke of.

It was Eros who was the more reticent in the end, though Sariel hardly recognized it. She did not realize how much her doubts and fears colored her version of the past, turning friends into companions and companions into acquaintances. She still made it sound as if she and Legolas were on opposite sides of the same war, or perhaps still assassin and target.

Yet whenever their talk turned to Legolas, King Thranduil, or whatever Sariel imagined Eryn Lasgalen to be like in times of peace, Eros always changed the subject. It took two or three times before Sariel noticed the evasive pattern, but she restrained herself from pursuing a reason and thought little of it. They all had secrets, after all.

* * *

A week after their near disaster, two hooded riders rode into their camp. Only Sariel and Eros were present, but both had immediately reacted, so the strangers faced two draw bows.

The one in front met their unwavering gazes with his own, his hand rising to throw back his hood. Sariel's quick gasp of breath disappeared into the sudden silence as they both released the tension in their bows.

"My lord," Eros said very quietly, and inclined her head. Sariel spared a wondering thought at her form of address—was it normal, and if so, normal between noble subject and prince, or between friends? Pushing away these thoughts, Sariel looked at him only to find that his attention was elsewhere. Eros, finished with her brief greeting, had already disappeared into the tent she shared with Sariel.

Unsure what to make of it all, Sariel turned to the second rider, who was dismounting. To her joy, it was Vanidar, though when she took in his unsmiling mien, doubts quickly overshadowed her happiness. The guilt that had eaten away at her for the past few days suddenly increased in appetite. She looked from Legolas to Vanidar and back again.

"Sariel," he said, speaking almost as quietly as Eros. She reached out to stroke Arod's soft nose and the horse's ears flickered a greeting when he caught her familiar scent. All the while, though, she looked up at his rider.

Heat suddenly rose to her cheeks as Sariel stared at Legolas, recalling in precise detail the last time they had seen each other, over three months ago. He was wearing finer clothes now than she had ever seen and she looked at him, noting the little changes in his appearance, in his manner.

She licked dry lips and managed to speak. "Why have you come? Is something amiss?"

There was a somberness to his gaze that had not been there before and he seemed weary, somehow older. "Vanidar will tell you all, Sariel. I must speak to Eros."

Indeed, it was Vanidar who embraced her after they dismounted, and for a moment Sariel buried her face in her friend's shoulder, all the better to hide the shock that could not be concealed from her features. She had imagined this moment, but had somehow never imagined he would be like this. Even Vanidar's solid warmth could not banish the cold touch of fear.

When Vanidar let her go, she looked out of the corner of her eye to see that Legolas was observing them. Turning her head, she caught his gaze for a moment, but Legolas only flicked her a glance, barely acknowledging her. He seemed impatient and worry gnawed at Sariel again. Did they bring ill news? Had someone—one of their companions—fallen?

"Nothing so bad, Sariel," Vanidar murmured, reading her thoughts on her face. It had not been necessary for her to hide her emotions, her expressions, in the past few months, and now it was harder than usual to regain her blank composure. "Come, let me tell you all. Legolas has other matters to discuss with Eros."

He was already striding toward the tent, clearly meaning to speak with Eros in private, even had Vanidar's gentle words not enforced that impression. Looking at him again, Sariel saw that he had become thinner, his cheekbones more defined, almost gaunt. It made him look even more like Lianderthral—less civilized, somehow. Why had Legolas not been taking care of himself? Had the last few months been so hard for him?

Of course they were, Sariel realized. She had worried endlessly over the four lives entrusted to her. Legolas watched over half their forces, and knowing his personality, she could only guess that he took each loss personally. These were his people, after all—these were Elves he had known for centuries. He was facing the same things that she was, only a thousand times more.

It was this realization that stayed her tongue, when she would have called out sharply to him. Sariel watched him go for another moment longer and then turned back to Vanidar, questions in her eyes.

"Thranduil and Legolas have received reports confirming that Aragorn is preparing for a last stand. Similar information has been come from nearly all the teams in this area—the orcs have been pushing down at us from the north, because Lianderthral and Thranduil's forces have driven them down toward us."

"Then we have them surrounded from top and bottom," Sariel realized, excitement replacing her trepidation. "The groups we have encountered recently have been much bigger in size, as if the orcs have been more willing to unite against us, even against their natures."

"Yes, for they have suffered too many losses to continue playing our game. The numbers have evened out. Whatever advantage Aragorn might have had over us is gone."

"You have come to rally the teams for the last battle," she breathed, hardly able to say the words.

"The one to end this war," Vanidar confirmed. "It has come much sooner than expected. We have been far more successful than we had dared to hope."

Sariel swallowed hard at the thought, the bleak expression in her friend's eyes telling her that the cost of such success was high. As a unit leader, Vanidar was far more aware than she of exactly how many lives had been lost, how many had been wounded. How could she feel such turmoil over Legolas' casual dismissal of her, when she could only imagine what he was experiencing? How could she be so selfish, to worry about her heart, when others had lost everything?

It was not her place to pry, nor even her place to feel…betrayed? Abandoned? Strangely bereft? Sariel did not know what it is she felt. Confusion, perhaps, above all. He had promised her nothing, had been cold to her for long before that one night. Perhaps he had thought better of it and this was his gentler way of telling her he had changed his mind. Three months of war could have changed his heart—but she could not believe this reasoning. He had seen wars before; it was not new to him as it was to her. So she could not stop herself from asking. "Why is he here, Vanidar? If you are telling me this, what business does he have with Eros?"

"I know not, Sariel. I have only heard that he has kept Eros waiting about something. Perhaps it has to do with something so trivial as her hair."

"Her hair?" Sariel repeated dumbly. "What do you mean?"

Vanidar looked at her with surprise and some concern. "I had thought, from Eros' reports, that you had become close. Did she not tell you? It is common knowledge that she once cut her hair for him, although no one knows exactly why."

Sariel was silent, turning over his words in her mind. It made no sense. But to ask more would be unforgivable; from what little Eros had told her of herself, Sariel knew that at the very least, the two had know each other for some time now. Eros was the daughter of a lord—for all Sariel knew, perhaps she had grown up with the prince.

"Most likely Legolas wishes to consult with her on some part of his strategy," Vanidar said, likely because he saw how perturbed she looked. Sariel flinched at his words, hearing only a sharp edge that reminded her of her own failure. She turned to Vanidar, trying to garner clues from his face, but his expression was neutral.

"She was with Gimli and Legolas before she joined my team, was she not?"

"Yes, she enjoys a close relationship with him, Sariel, and has done so for quite a while. It is no secret," Vanidar emphasized again. "Sariel—"

Their conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Legolas himself, his expression more closed and forbidding than ever. He looked at Vanidar, who rose with aclarity, holding out his hand for Sariel's to clasp.

"I must go now," he said, giving her hand a quick squeeze. "The other unit leaders are waiting for me. Keep safe."

"Vanidar…"

"Goodbye, Sariel. I may see you soon." He hesitated. "If you truly wish to know, perhaps consider asking Ithildin."

She watched him mount and ride off without further delay, half incredulous at his cryptic advice. Then she turned to Legolas, to whom she could not ask anything at all.

* * *

There was a little silence as she waited for him to say whatever he would, assuming that he wanted her to stay there at all. He was looking away from her and she found it suddenly awkward to even look at him. They had shared something intimate, if not with their bodies, but three months later, it seemed like that night was the aberration. There was something slightly painful to just being in his presence now, like former best friends meeting for the first time in years, when neither had kept in touch and were wondering who had broken off the connection first.

"Will you help me?"

She turned her head toward him a little too fast, betraying her nerves. "What did you say?"

He looked—if not precisely cold, then somehow distant, even though he was standing right there. "Will you help me, Sariel?"

She nodded mutely, because there was nothing else she could do. It was not an expression she had seen on him before, so it took her longer to figure out. He looked as if he were about to deliver a rejection, one that he deeply regretted. She bit her bottom lip so hard that blood suddenly filled her mouth with a thick, coppery taste.

"It may not be right… I am sorry to use you thus," he said, finally looking at her intensely, eyes searching for something in her expression that he did not find. "But the truth is not kind."

"What do you mean, Legolas?"

He laughed bitterly and his mouth flattened with self-disgust. "I am a coward after all. It would be too hard for either one of us." He grabbed her left hand and placed something in her palm, curling her fingers over something metal and cold with his own. "Give this to Eros and tell her…" He paused, conflicted emotions warring with one another in his dark gaze. "Tell her that I wish her well with all my heart."

Sariel laid her right hand on his arm; she felt the heat and the strong muscles beneath the wrist guards that he wore, but he was also trembling faintly with the depth of his emotion. "I will do as you say. Anything else, prince?"

Of all the things that had passed, what she could not overlook was that he did not tell her to call him by name. "We rally now," he said at last. "And this battle will determine victory or loss for us all."

"Take care of yourself, Legolas," she whispered.

A shadow fell over his eyes until they were a dark, pure blue. "You, too, Sariel."

Strangely, Sariel felt compelled by some unvoiced fear, of death but of other things as well, which hung lingering in the air like some ominous cloud of darkness. She was unwilling to let it end simply like that—perhaps in the deepest corner of her mind she had imagined what their meeting would be like after all these long months, and it was not this clumsy, painful exchange.

"I missed you," she blurted out, and then stopped in distress, surprised by her own actions. Had she ever lost control of herself like that? It was only with Legolas that she did, as if being around him brought out the parts of her that she would rather keep hidden away. Yes, she had lost control, ever since the moment her dagger, poised over his heart, had slipped from her hand.

Legolas smiled for the first time, however, and Sariel felt her heart warm a little when she saw it. His next words made that feeling die away as abruptly as if someone had thrown a bucket of water over a candle flame. "We will not see each other often, I suspect."

He seemed to restraint himself from taking the step forward that would close the polite distance between them. His brow was furrowed, the corners of his mouth turned down again, and he looked burdened with guilt.

"Stay alive," he said simply, looking at her with suddenly dull eyes. Before Sariel knew what was happening, he had gone to his horse's side. Hands on Arod's strong withers, Legolas mounted easily, but with none of his usual fluidity.

"It will be all right," Sariel called out to him, the platitude falling uncertainly from her lips. She surprised herself by making the effort in the first place, but he looked emotionally vulnerable somehow, and so very exhausted.

"It should have never been like this," he breathed, bent close to Arod's mane. The words came out so softly that Sariel could tell he meant them for himself, probably forgetting that she had sharper hearing than even most Elves and thus would overhear. He looked down at her for a moment and she almost reached out, desperate for contact again, like a supplicant hopeful of a touch of benediction.

"Keep safe, Sariel, whatever may come." He turned away as if unable to bear looking at her in the face. The small gesture hurt more than Sariel would ever admit, but she kept her gaze steady, watching as he turned Arod in a tight circle, the horse's restlessness no doubt the result of transference from his rider's mood. With a murmured farewell, he galloped off exactly as Vanidar had just before, leaving Sariel watching the departure of a green cloaked rider for the second time in an hour.

Alone, she let her suppressed emotions wash over her, left hand clenching into an angry and helpless fist, the object Legolas had passed to her still clenched tight in her palm. It was as warm as her hand now, the shape round, like a coin. She let herself indulge in a moment of hurt, and then she remembered news of the coming last battle and forgot her troubles for concern on a much grander scale.

* * *

Sariel entered the darkened tent and heard the soft sound of weeping. Startled, she lit a candle and glanced towards Eros' bedroll, seeing a curled form under the blankets, the other Elf lying on her side. The sound of the weeping stopped almost abruptly at the flame, as Eros became aware of her presence. What had Legolas said to the other Elf, to leave her like this? Sariel cautiously moved forward, feeling even more defenseless when faced with another's tears.

"Eros? What is—" _No_, she thought uncertainly. It would be presumptuous of her to ask, to assume something was wrong and that Eros should tell her. She settled for a gentler question. "Do you want to talk to me?"

A pale, shaking hand appeared and slowly pushed back the blankets to reveal Eros' face. Tears seemed monstrously out of place coming from those honeyed eyes, normally bright with dependable cheer. _Well, what now?_ Sariel wondered, as the silence stretched and tears continued to trickle down Eros' cheeks, though silently. Still, the other Elf could not choke back a few hiccupping gasps of breath, suppressed sobs shaking her protectively curled frame.

Desperation finally prompted Sariel's memory. "Legolas gave me something to give to you," she said as meekly as she could. She helped the other Elf rise, though it was awkward offering only her right hand. Hope seemed to flare in Eros' eyes and she offered Sariel a tremulous smile, though she looked as though she could not have felt any less happy.

Sariel offered Eros her left hand and finally opened it. For a moment she was speechless, something inside of her twisting sharply when she saw what it was. She did not hear Eros' exhalation, for she was trying with her utmost will to control her own breathing, but failing. Her breaths came in short, sharp bursts, the knots within her chest pulling tight and then seeming to tear.

She should have known, from the way it was clenched in her hand, but she had not wanted to admit it. Had told herself not to be so faithless. She was reading all the signs wrong, was overreacting. Yet here was the proof in front of her eyes and she could only stare at it.

Candlelight hit the small gems embedded in the thin gold band of the ring, sending out glittering flashes of green fire. The warm yellow light also shined softly and lovingly over the exquisitely detailed patterns of leaves etched in green. It was delicate, intricate, and altogether perfect. And it was for Eros.

"He says he wishes you well with all his heart," Sariel heard herself through numb, stiff lips. Her voice came out tonelessly but Eros did not seem to notice—and why would she? Her fingers reached out to take the ring and for one insane moment, Sariel's fingers almost twitched, almost curled themselves over the tiny bit of jewelry again, closing her hand in utter denial. She forced herself to keep her hand steady and blinked hard as she dropped the beautiful thing into Eros' palm, the other Elf's face suddenly blurry before her.

Heat bloomed across her cheeks again, but this time born of hurt and humiliation. Sariel tilted her head up, fixing her gaze on the tent's cloth above them, willing the liquid to go away. She tried to think of the most disgusting thing she had ever seen, tried to distract herself with memories of orc's heads split open. Anything to ward away these thoughts, but they still came.

Why had he not given it to Eros himself? Was this his way of saying that whatever was between them was done, a not so subtle sign that she should not cause any problems for his new lover? Now a little bit of anger crept through the pain, but she still could not _think_, could not dare to feel.

Eros' tears meanwhile had dried, though she stared at the ring with no sign of joy. It lay in her palm and Sariel could not help glancing down at it, torturing herself again with the delicate leaves, the emeralds. _Greenleaf_, she thought. She could not stay another moment in this small, cozily lit tent, not with Eros here.

It was rude and unworthy of her friendship with Eros, but Sariel fled outside without another word. Outside, the brisk breeze did nothing to ease the ache, though it had a chill bite to it that was welcome on her overheated cheeks. She flushed again in mingled pain and anger. It should not matter to her if Legolas had already his own love here, in his home. For all she knew, his father might have decided on a bride for him a long time ago. Elves sometimes married young, and Eros—well, Sariel could not imagine anyone disliking her. Even prideful Simbelmynë had fallen to her charisma.

_Is this his way of showing me that in his own woodland realm, he needs nothing from me? _wondered Sariel._ Eros is patient, gracious… _The thought struck Sariel suddenly, like a quick, hard, blow to her stomach. It was not just the idea that he might love another, not _who_ he loved, but _what_ he loved. Eros was kind, pure…_good_.

She tilted her chin up again, looking at the distant stars. This did not matter. What mattered was that they were all safe, all well. In the coming battles, what was important was not these feelings, no matter how much her heart ached, but survival, first and foremost. She told herself that to lose him to Eros was still better than losing him to death. So then why did she feel like she no longer care whether she would live?

* * *

Nightfall. She was cleaning Myste's saddle when the piercing whistle came, though it was through a great calm that she heard it. Even as she moved, the others joined her, running towards Ithildin where he stood before the coming orcs. Night attacks were rare, but they had had about twenty minutes to prepare for this one. It was not long before all of them were engaged in combat, the clash of the weaponry too loud in the silence of the night. Enemies were dark shadows on the land, moving towards them, steel and unfinished armor catching the light with dull, sinister glints.

The confusion of battle, enemies behind and in front and to the sides, all around her, surrounding her, pressing in…Sariel had never experienced it quite like this time, the utter mass of moving bodies and unsheathed swords, the balance between pure chance and fate determining the outcome of a single warrior's life on the blood-slicked stone. Any moment now an arrow could find its target, in the other or in you. There was no champion, no hero. It did not matter how skilled of a fighter she was, in the end it all came down to destiny… She had never believed much in destiny until now.

It was a welter of images, sights, and sounds. Her sword arm tired, still not fully recovered from all that she had taken from her body in the last half year, until she was swinging blinding around her, trusting on instinct alone to distinguish friend from foe. Not just instinct, though, but probability—they were outnumbered yet again but other teams were unlikely to come, having engaged in their own battles.

The forest was dark and the meager light it received was soft, from the moon. Here the orcs had outwitted themselves, for this was the Elves' land they were fighting for and the forest told them where each root and tree and branch lay. What they could not see they already knew, because the forest itself had told them.

A half hour passed, perhaps longer, and Sariel was surprised to find herself still standing, the passage of time seemed both slow, so slow, and fast. She no longer looked at the faces of the dead around her, to afraid she would recognized Elven features, the high arched brows and pointed ears. They did not describe the melee of battle well enough, she dimly thought—all the poets and the minstrels in the world could not describe the carnage well enough.

She was numb; if she had been wounded she would have never known until she had bled to death. It was a craze, a maddened fury. It was longer than any assassination she had ever taken, so out of control that she felt as if she had been stripped of her soul and there was only an animal left there fighting—and then the trap closed. She saw a gleaming, naked blade and tried to turn, but she slipped on the blood-slicked ground, and then she fell and knew no more.

"SARIEL!" The cry rose, caught up in the wind, with terrible urgency. She twisted up from the ground, searching frantically for her companions. They needed fresh fighters, they were too long outnumbered and new orcs appeared as if out of nowhere, drawn to the scene of the battle by the low notes that blew from a crude horn. She needed to take him out, but it was all she could to do avoid a killing blow.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw another body fall, but it was the pale face turns towards her, not dark. A glimpse of grey eyes wide in shock had her heart thundering, a cry of her own on her lips.

"Athelas!" she screamed, her arm moving only from rote memory of the patterns, thrusting up and to the left in order to slice the orc at the unprotected side of his throat.

No one had come to aid Sariel's struggling team. How many border teams were being attacked tonight? With Athelas seriously wounded, perhaps close to death, they would be four Elves against so many more.

Simbelmynë appeared above her like some grim face of death descending. "GET UP!" he shouted at her, and when she slipped again, his left hand seized her wrist and wrenched up, forcing her to stand. "We must retreat!"

_We cannot_, Sariel thought. If they did, this part of the border line would be undefended and the orcs would break through. She would rather die over this piece of forest, these trees—what point was there to surrendering it? Thoughts crossed her mind confusedly; she welcomed the distraction and tried not to think of the commander who would be the one to curse her for failing to maintain the defensive line. Ithildin's streaked hair gleamed with darkish liquid and Eros was covered in blood—it was the nightmare all over again, but there was no second chance, not this time. Simbelmynë was standing over the fallen Athelas, striving to protect him.

Sariel's vision blurred, but they were fast evening the odds. If only there would be no new storm of orcs descending on them, they could hold their own. Almost suddenly, there were only three orcs left and Sariel stared dumbly at the face of the orc that had just fallen to her feet, wavering. She drew out a dagger from her side and threw it at the orc Simbelmynë had been battling, the metal twisting in the air. No need to keep these weapons on her now, not at the close of a battle. She was already rushing towards the Elf and orc locked in single combat, forcing her stiff arms to respond to the urgency in her blood. The dagger missed.

The orc's sword caught at her own. She broke free and the tip of Aurielen sliced a shallow gash on the orc's face, not causing much damage but enraging him with pain. He closed in on her, locking her sword to sword, body to body. Something broke with a sharp, almost ringing sound. Steel screamed against steel.

She never knew when the blow fell, only felt Aurielen fall from her suddenly weakened grip. Simbelmynë stood to one side and she looked at her arm, shocked to see it in a strange position. The force of the orc's last parry had caused her to lose her sword and had also broken her arm. Simbelmynë had run the orc through from behind.

"Sariel!" he roared at her, but her name sounded far away. She felt dizzy, her vision streaming with bizarre colors. From the side she dimly saw Eros and Ithildin approaching. Looking at the ground besides her she was surprised to see Athelas' still form. It was the last she knew before she was swallowed by the darkness.

* * *

"Athelas," she said weakly as someone laid an ice-cold, wet piece of cloth on her brow. Sariel opened her eyes to the unwelcome sight of Simbelmynë scowling fiercely.

"The bone in your right arm fragmented under impact," he told her. "It was not a clean break and will take months to heal."

His words came slowly to her as if they had first passed through a fog. "Months? We do not _have_ months. What about Athelas? Where is he?"

Angry grey eyes darkened and he looked away, then rose and gestured to someone outside her field of vision. Sariel tried to sit up and laid back down hurriedly; the room spun sickeningly. "Athelas?" she murmured again.

"You deal with her," she heard Simbelmynë's rough voice say.

A bandaged and pale-faced Eros loomed over her and Sariel closed her eyes, not wanting to see the swirling colors that drifted over her companion's face. "Sariel, there is nothing you can do for him now."

It took a while for the import of the words to sink in, for her to understand that one of her team, one of the Elves assigned under _her _leadership, was beyond the reach of any of them now. It took much quicker for her to realize that he had lost his life because she had refused to retreat, because of her pride. She had been willing to throw her life away, but it had given her no right to risk theirs—to make that decision for those under her leadership.

"I am sorry," Eros said quietly, voice husky with her own tears. "We all grieve for him." They had all known each other only for a few months, but their relationships with each other had gone much deeper than one would have thought. Forced to fight side by side, they had learned to give each other with their lives. She had betrayed that trust, Sariel now realized. She had failed them as a friend, but also as a leader. His words came back to haunt her: _it will not happen again_. No, it had not—Eros had not been able to take over when she had faltered, and rather than another miracle of salvation, Athelas had died for it.

"What now?" she asked dully, forcing herself up even as the room tilted and she wavered, unsure of which way was up.

"We go on as before," Eros said sharply. "We will send a messenger bird to the main camp, to tell them that we are one short. The tide of battle is turning for us, Sariel, and we must press forward now that we have the upper hand."

"Even if it means more deaths?" It was more plea than question. At the heart of it all, she was just an Elf with a past that none would believe, an assassin that had renounced her skills. She had been exposed to the harsh side of reality since her childhood, but was still sheltered from life.

"Would you have us fight this war eternally?" Eros said, voice firm. "It is almost over. You cannot give up when it is almost won. Other groups have lost people—some entire groups have been lost. We must make those lives count for something."

Sariel looked away, unable to meet those kind golden eyes, unwilling to take the comfort that Eros was readily offering. "I told him I was no leader," she burst out angrily. "I told him I wasn't anything. Anyone. I am just an assassin who could not even kill the one most important target of my life, an Elf who caused the deaths of all my family, and who…who—" her voice faltered and she choked, throat tight as she forced herself to admit it, "who gave herself over to be used by her master in some fool's idea that she could save the only ones who had ever done her any good." She had never told Eros, in fact she had never spoken of it to anyone, although the knowledge was never far from her mind. Eros was quick to pick up on the implication, the only sign of her shock in her widening eyes. Now with Sariel's defenses already shattered, all her long-held doubts came pouring out as she wept violently, disconsolately.

"Listen to me," Eros said, shaking her hard despite her gasp of pain. Sariel saw more sympathy in her eyes than she deserved. But Eros did not even know what was the most important of all…

"I t-told him. _I told him_. I have not brought anything to them except pain. Look at Arwen, look at Aragorn." She started laughing between her tears, the sound wild and full of despair. "He had the worst of it himself, d-didn't he? I t-tried to _k-kill _him."

"Be quiet, Sariel. _Daro ha_," Eros soothed.

It was a long time before Sariel could speak again, and Eros let her cry it out. "Athelas put all his f-faith in me, and now look… I killed him t-too."

"Please, stop this," Eros repeated, louder. She took Sariel's face between her hands and locked her gaze on dark blue eyes. "Listen to me. We need you, Sariel. You cannot come out of this now. You have been our leader for nearly three months now, but all along you doubted yourself, told yourself you were not fit for this. You _have_ brought something to us, Sariel. You brought strength with you, courage and determination. I do not know your entire story, but I know this one thing. None of your old companions blame you for who you are, or what you did. Some things are beyond our control and we can only make do as best we can with what fate has given us."

She had cried so much that there were no more tears left, and now she was surprisingly calm, almost sedated. Her hands and face felt numb, tingly, and although she sat still, she felt as if she was shaking. "That is not true. There is at least one person…one that knows the guilt is mine to bear."

Eros looked into her eyes compassionately and to Sariel's surprise the loving Elf leaned down and kissed her on her forehead. "The one you speak of knows that your strength of spirit is what carried you through all this time, and that valor is not something one can be faulted with."

"He hates me all the same," Sariel whispered, closing her eyes, not wanting to see the understanding on Eros' face. The last thing she could bear was pity from Eros. How was it that Eros knew so much? But there was no doubt that she did, and yet she did not know what was most essential, what Sariel could not bear to tell her.

"No, he cares for you, as you care for him, and this is what causes you to wound each other to the quick in so many ways," Eros said, voice low and filled with something indefinable but grave all the same, carrying with it faint regret.

Sariel wished it was so, wanted her words to be true so much it hurt all the more. Her heart felt leaden and she longed to cry to Eros, _you are the one he loves, can you not see? I had just one special thing in my life and I lost it._

Instead, she said, "You need not pretend with me, Eros."

Surprise flickered over her friend's face quickly, but Sariel was too tired, too dazed to try to read her expression.

"Never mind, Sariel. I know you will be strong for us, I know that you will not fail us now when we most need you." Eros drew Sariel closer and embraced her gently, not letting go for several moments. "May I call you sister?"

Pain clawed Sariel's heart, sharp and deep. She remembered Arwen and the rose that had passed between them in something as pure and simple as friendship. She was filled with emotions that she could not name, a mixture of envy, pain, and strangely, gratification. "Yes," she replied, and then looked at Eros in the eyes for the first time. "Arwen—Arwen befriended me, and it has brought nothing to her but pain. Perhaps you should be cautious."

"There is no one else I would ask," Eros said gently. "There are many reasons, but I think you will understand them better when all of it is over, when peace is in Eryn Lasgalen once more. You are tired; you should rest now. The messenger bird has been sent and it will bear the reply next morning. Sleep well…sister." She clasped Sariel's hands in her own for a moment and then left.

The events of the day left Sariel with too much to think about, and in the case of Athelas, to grieve over. She could only hope that he was happier now than he had been, her gentle healer and valiant warrior. Her mind wandered to Eros and their conversation, but she found that she was so tired she could not keep her eyes open. Though her mind was busy, before long Sariel rested in deep, dreamless sleep, the oblivion a small comfort for her regrets.

**

* * *

Please review!**

_Finalized August 2010_


	22. Blinded

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

_Dedication: In memory of all the victims of war. The weapons differ, the methods and strategies vary, but humans have been killing each other throughout time. A rock, a sword, a gun, a bomb—some say that we have become more humane in the ways we kill, but mankind still advances without progress._

**Chapter 22: Blinded**

She was stiff and sore the next morning, but her injuries were nothing compared to what she had suffered in the past. Her right arm had been bandaged and was encased in a hardened wrap, no doubt thanks to Eros or… Sariel's movements stopped, a sudden surge of fresh grief breaking over her as she remembered the events of the day before, remembered seeing Athelas fall.

She sat up carefully, something to the side of where she had rested catching her eye. At first, she had trouble comprehending what it was, before understanding came all too swiftly. Aurielen, her father's sword, lay broken into three pieces. It had shattered near the hilt and then split lengthwise, so that the blade had become two long, jagged pieces.

She stared at the broken sword for a long, stunned moment. Through all the years after her father's death, she had at least this one thing of his. She had trained with it endlessly, had known its weight and grip in the same way she had known her own arm, and had slept with it next to her side. She could clearly recall the first time she had ever held the sword in her two hands with the intent to kill. Her father had lay dying and Belderon had been advancing toward her. It had been two heavy for her then and she had not been able to wield, though it was light relative to other swords. She had never carried out an assassination with this sword. Innocent blood had never mingled with her father's legacy.

Her hand reached out to touch the gleaming metal. Perhaps it was fitting that this one last part of her old life was gone, for better or worse. It was smooth, hard, and cool beneath her hand. She picked up the hilt again, the plain leather wrapping familiar and even comforting, though it was much too light.

Eros came in just as she carefully set the hilt down again. "Two teams are outside and their leaders wish to speak with you, Sariel."

Without a word, Sariel ducked outside of the tent and was met by a golden haired female. The newcomer handed her a tiny capsule, the type usually attached to a messenger bird's foot. Sariel unrolled the thin, nearly transparent paper. Legolas himself had written the message, his letters neat though clearly done in haste. The note itself was brief, ordering Sariel's team to join the main army. Their border watch would be replaced with the two groups who were already here.

"If you would gather your team, the prince wants you at the main camp as soon as possible," the Elf said, not unkindly. "We have heard of your loss and have grieved with your companions. Almost all of us had met or known Athelas. Some of my team owe their lives to his healing touch. He will be remembered, and he will be avenged."

There was a promise in those words, but Sariel knew it should have been hers to give. Perhaps that was why the orders had been conveyed in writing and not just from the other two leaders who had come. Eros had left while she had been reading the message and now returned with both Ithildin and Simbelmynë. Their group, already small, seemed even emptier without Athelas.

Ithildin looked at her. "We made a funeral cairn for him. The orcs we burned."

Later, in private, Sariel would stand over his resting place for a moment of quiet respect and reflection. Now, she simply nodded, hardly able to look any of them in the eye. "Legolas wants us at the front," she told them. "Make ready to leave."

* * *

After months of solitude with only her team, Sariel found it almost overwhelming to be surrounded by so many Elves all in one place. She had always been independent and the constant activity of the main camp reminded her a little of Lothlórien, though this was a place of war, not dreams. The organization was impressive and even such a large number of Elves made as minimal of an impact on the forest around them as possible. The entire camp could be efficiently dismantled and moved in a day or less—and indeed, it had been moving with the front line of battle.

She had expected that Legolas would be too busy to see her. The truth was, she did not particularly want to see him. Her recent discoveries were far too fresh in her mind and she did not know if she could act calmly, especially in this time when calm was most needed. He must have expected her to understand his intentions and to know where she now stood with him. After all, she reflected bitterly, he had specifically asked her to give Eros the ring.

Yes, the ring. She could not forget it, even in the wake of her failures and the death of one of her Elves. She was as enthralled by thoughts of it as she would have been with a true Ring of Power, not just a lover's token. The pattern of green leaves etched in gold seemed indelibly limned into her mind, a backdrop for her every thought. Yet these thoughts, these feelings, were only a distraction she could ill afford. Athelas had already paid for it with his life.

_Feel nothing. Let no one close to you. Never forget that you are an assassin_. She had been too eager to leave her past behind her, when it was foolish to do so for more reasons than she had originally realized. She should have heeded Belderon's words more, while fighting in Belderon's war.

Sariel did not get a chance to regain her equilibrium. Not long after she and her team had arrived and found a place for themselves in the camp, Legolas surprised her by seeking her out. He ushered her into a tent—his, she supposed—and then stood tall before her, more the prince and commander than ever.

"Eros wrote to me that you were wounded." His eyes lingered on her arm and took in the absence of her sword.

"It will heal," she said. "Athelas is beyond that."

"Sariel," he said gravely. His tone was something she had not expected of him, and she wondered again how much this war had cost him, to change him so. "You can only do as best you can. I have spoken with each of your Elves and no one blames you. You have led them well and will continue to do so."

She took a shallow breath and then another, her shoulders tense. "I wish you would choose another. Eros would be well suited for it."

It took her a moment to hear her own choice of words and then Sariel closed her eyes, a muffled gasp of laughter escaping her, the irony too much to accept. She covered her face with her hands for a moment, before looking at him again.

"Yes, I have already informed Eros of her new rank," he said, surprising her. "But it is not because of any failure on your part. You cannot go out in battle with a broken right arm."

She chose not to dwell on any other interpretation of his words and intentions. "I can still be an archer."

"No, Sariel, you know better and we do not have the time to argue about this." He sounded so tired that she bit back the words that hovered on the tip of her tongue. So they were not going to talk about anything else. She supposed that had been the point of sending her to Eros—to avoid talking about it.

A messenger found Legolas then and a flurry of conversation passed between commander and soldier, the latter ignoring Sariel's presence completely. The messenger left and Legolas turned back to her as if he had become used to constant interruptions.

"Is this it, then?" Without noticing, she had edged closer to him and now Sariel moved back again, keeping a safe distance between them.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Fighting has begun again at the line and I have called almost all the teams here, since the orcs have been amassing. I have seen Aragorn twice, you know."

Somehow, despite knowing in the abstract that Aragorn was the one organizing all the orcs, Sariel had never considered all the implications it had for Legolas, commander of the opposing force. Had Legolas sent Elves after Aragorn, to take out the enemy's leader? The thought shocked her to the core. The Elves did not use assassins, only Belderon… But she was here. _I could have done it_, Sariel caught herself thinking, and yet a vivid memory of the day Aragorn had died came on the heels of her contemplation.

"Why did Arwen not come with Elrond's Elves?" she asked. "I have heard of her absence. Why did she stay with her father until now?"

Legolas shook head in wishful denial. "I do not know why she remained behind, but she should arrive here at any time now. It may have been for the better. I would spare her the pain if I could, but thus far Aragorn has continued to hide himself away. This is likely to be the last push, Sariel. When this final battle ends…"

_Aragorn will be dead_, she ended for him, in her thoughts. _If victory is ours. And if it is not, then all is lost for us._

"It will be by my hand, if by anyone's," he vowed, eyes bright with anguish.

"Legolas…" She had spoken inadvertently, without thought as to what she wanted to say, but the need to somehow shield him from this future grief compelled her. It hurt incredibly to think of him hurting. Even the knowledge that she had now, the knowledge that he belonged to another, did not have the power to erase her feelings overnight. She still ached for him, still wanted him. She was beginning to realize that she might always want him, even if he had chosen Eros.

She almost told him to be careful and almost demanded that he come back alive. Such platitudes were useless, and yet she understood why people said them, because without them, there was nothing that could be said.

"This is my home." Legolas had turned away from her until he stood just before the entrance of the tent, the line of his green-clad shoulders crisp against the darker colors of the walls.

"Athelas believed it was mine, too," Sariel remembered. "He thought I was one of you. He said we only needed to stand our ground."

"He was right." It was an appropriately ambiguous reply to an ambiguous question that Sariel had not quite even asked.

The clarion cry of a Elven horn sounded throughout the camp, startling both of them. Legolas had already lifted the flap that covered the tent entrance when he looked over his shoulder at her. "I must go. They need me."

What did it matter what she did now? Sariel wondered, suddenly seized with recklessness. What did it matter if these were stolen moments, when she faced the possibility that he would not come back?

Hardly able to believe her own audacity, she closed the few feet between them in a few strides and then she was slipping her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against his solid back. He had frozen with surprise and she took full advantage of it. She breathed in his scent, listened to his heart beat once, twice—his shoulders moved slightly as he took in a startled breath. His right vambrace knocked against the hard binding around her broken arm and his hands came up to cover hers, long fingers threading between hers. She drew back an instant before she would find out whether he intended to break her hold around him or draw her arms around him tighter.

"Go," she whispered from just behind him, her heart pounding. His shoulders started to turn and she put her hands on them, halting his motion with some force of her own. She felt the cool brush of his hair against her cheek. "Do not look back. Just go."

* * *

Legolas whirled in battle, sword flashing in arcs around him as he methodically attacked, blocked, and killed the faceless enemy. How long? He could not begin to guess. Time passed differently in battle, minutes became hours and hours became but moments. A sudden hush fell over the battlefield, one of the momentary lulls that occurred when the fight had been long and fierce. Legolas heard the sound of the wind rustling in the trees, but the breeze brought with it the smell of death and bloodshed, not the fresh scent of the trees' breath.

He wearied. Besides him his companions and his enemies fell and he blocked the faces from his mind. He would grieve later, if he survived. Smoke drifted towards them and he knew with grim certainty that the orcs had once again brought torches to burn this forest and destroy his home.

A sharp object swinging towards him—he blocked, unaware that the tip had slipped through his guard and sliced a thin, small gash on his cheek. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth and he despaired. The world seemed to narrow down to just him and these opponents, he was no longer the commanding prince but just a warrior, with no idea of whether they were winning or losing. From the side of his vision he saw the forest ablaze and his heart cried out at the loss.

His arm ached but with a desperate slash that left his guard open, he dispatched the orc. For a moment he stood there, sword in hand still dripping with the pungent dark blood, but then another rushed him and he stepped aside fluidly, a mad, swift dance of death. His guard faltered and the orc before him loomed, a dark blight against the once peaceful green forest. Legolas drew on the last of his strength—how long had they been fighting, for the Elves to tire? There was confusion in battle, Arod rearing to strike out with pounding hooves, the crack of a skull from the impact mingling with the dying scream of some orc far off…

Elvish eyes the color of rain turned instantly blank, glassy with death. Shining locks darkened with sweat and blood. The smoke stung his eyes and filled his nostrils, the heat from the flames oppressive. It was a distraction that the orcs knew would work—attack the forest, and they were attacking the Elves as well. To his right, an Elf collapsed to his knees and then fell forward, facedown, on top of the orc who he had killed and who had killed him.

He thought of her and renewed strength flowed into his body, making his movements fast and flowing again. Legolas turned, to run his sword through an orc intent on killing one of his companions, and then put his foot on the carcass to pull his sword free. There were no longer any hiss of arrows in the air. It was pitched battle and friend and foe alike were intertwined, fighting. The orcs shot flaming arrows at the trees and the smell of burnt sap nearly covered all the other horrific odors of death. There were trolls allied with the orcs, and the last of the giant spiders in Eryn Lasgalen fought once again against their traditional foe.

At some point he lost any idea of saving his home, only aware that this was a fight for survival. He could clearly see her in his mind and he told himself he was fighting to save her. No matter that it was wrong of him to do so, to focus only on her instead of all his people. There had been no words of affection, no release of pent up emotions. Only a cryptic command. _Do not look back._

So he face forward and let go of everything. He cleared his mind and heart of fears, doubts, sorrows. Someone turned to meet him and he let loose a hoarse battle cry, a paean to the will to live, her name—who was there to care what he cried, in this moment and time? He gasped as the opponent came in for a lightning quick strike at his shoulder, only barely able to throw up an arm. Before battle he had exchanged his stiff leather arm and wrist guards for steel vambraces, but the sword bit through the metal and deep into flesh. Legolas cried out again, but in pain. It was only then that he looked into the face of his attacker and realized that it was not orc, but man.

_Aragorn_, he thought for a shocked instance, before his reflexes took over. Legolas attacked and blocked as he would have for any other being intent on killing him.

* * *

Sariel could not simply wait and do nothing. With a few queries, she found her way to the tents set up by the healers. She knew more about inflicting a wound than about healing it, strictly speaking, but she quickly found out that she recognized almost all of the medicines used by the healers, especially the painkillers. Her extensive study of herbology and serology left her skilled in not only poisons, but also in narcotics.

It was not a physically taxing job, to measure out powders and grind up dry herbs. She expected it to provide a distraction from unwelcome worries about those were currently fighting, but the day wore on and Sariel saw more blood and more death than she had seen in all her past work combined. When she killed, she did it elegantly, most of the time leaving little trace of her intervention. Though she took life, she did not mutilate limbs, did not crush bones, did not prolong her victim's suffering. She did not disembowel her opponents or leave them permanently maimed but still clinging to life.

There was blood, endless amounts of it, but the blood hid the more gruesome injuries. Her clothes became stained with so many disgusting fluids that though she was far from faint of heart and certainly not new to death, Sariel became nearly sickened when she looked down at herself. She had never seen anything on this scale and could not have imagined the horror of being with the healers on the day the final battle would decide the war. It would have been easier to be in battle, spared of seeing what war really wrought.

For all the pride of their race, there was scant dignity in the healing tents for the Elves. For all the honor of fighting in defense of their home, they had been cut down like beasts—no, worse than beasts, for beasts fought only with fang and claw, and those did not sever spines or craft poison-tipped arrows. For all the Elves' love of artistry, there was no beauty of any kind to be found in such a death. It seemed all the worse that these bodies were once so strong, whole, and ever youthful.

After a few hours, Sariel longed to leave, but she was still needed. In a way, it was payment. She had brought this war to Eryn Lasgalen and she would force herself to witness the death it left in its wake. The wounded were sometimes worse than the dead—there was no final escape for them, no alleviation of horror. The only true difference between the two was that the dead were laid out in silent, long lines outside, while the wounded were inside the tent, where the healers could hear their cries.

Each Elf who died while she struggled to at least ease the pain of the last few minutes before their death, each body taken away to make room as a fresh wave of the wounded were rushed in… The world narrowed down to the confines of the tent they all worked in, the cloth covering the floor was reddish brown everywhere, as new blood soaked into old, drying stains. When she stood up too quickly, Sariel was almost dizzy from it all.

The rules of the assassin applied here, too. She would not dishonor the wounded by showing her fear or disgust. She would not panic from the feeling of being trapped in a room of dying people. They would not appreciate her pity and they did not want her remorse for the part she had played in bringing this war to their doorstep. None of them recognized her and oddly, this anonymity made her feel for the first time that she truly was one of them. They did not want her tears. They wanted only for her to do her job. It was one that brought back far too many memories, for she was the one who circulated amongst the mortally wounded, giving them their drink of deadly elixir: a swift-acting poison.

She had been surprised to find poison among the healers, but then she had understood. They could and would run out of painkillers soon; the healers could not waste them on the fatally wounded, for sometimes it took a large dosage before they slipped off into their eternal sleep. Poison, then, was used, and the painkillers saved for those with wounds were not so grave.

Despite the horror that roiled inside of her, she showed none of it. Though she could not help but feel disgust at both herself and at these wounded Elves, her hands were steady and gentle. Perhaps she could not stop herself from feeling, as Belderon had always wanted her to do, but she _had_ learned to lock it away deep inside of her at all cost. He had made a point of torturing animals before her, forcing her to watch without showing a shred of emotion. Those constant lessons over hundreds of years served her well now.

The time passed both too slowly and too fast, the day slipping by quickly because they were busy, but also endless because the fighting still continued. From the brief snatches of conversation between the healers, Sariel knew that a retreat was out of the question—both sides were fully committed to this final battle. For some time, it was as if it was Athelas' face on each Elf that she served, but after a while, all of the faces and the injuries began to blur together until Sariel was not quite sure whether this was the fiftieth she treated, or the five hundredth. She was not healing, she was killing.

She grieved for these people, wounded by life but denied a clean death. They could not save them all, Sariel knew, and yet her eyes burned with dry tears when another Elf surrendered at last, eyes wide and blank with death after many tormented hours. There were some that were beyond saving when they were brought in, and the most she or any of the other healers could do was to ease the way for them.

She did not look into their faces, did not ask their names or talk to them beyond asking what they felt and where, or what they needed. Sariel took the advice of other healers who had seen many overwhelmed by the sheer number of deaths. She kept herself efficient and impersonal, thought of the patients as merely that—patients, or bodies. Not Elves, not someone's son or husband or daughter, not _people._ To act differently would mean insanity.

How strange that she, once an assassin, now was taking lives again. Yet the reasons behind it were so different; this was a form of mercy, the only one that could be offered. She thought of Legolas out on the battlefield, how they did the same thing and yet opposite: she was healing and killing, he was wounding and killing. Sariel retreated back into the empty, white place in her mind, back to where she could kill and feel nothing even knowing that her hands had caused another spirit to slip away from its body. It could not last long, though – she would hear some words of softly spoken Elvish, a plea to the gods or a cry for a lover, a mother, someone, and she would be brought back to reality with a cold, hard jolt.

She would hold out the poison to them, help them drink, and sometimes they would look at her while they were dying, or they would close their eyes in peace or fear when she approached them, for before long they all knew what her task was. She was the bringer of death, and some went willingly while others fought as hard as they could before they succumbed, but all that drank the liquid she brought would die.

She leaned down to give poison to another Elf and the cup nearly slipped from her nerveless hands when she recognized the proud features. Since she knew none of the Elves here, it had been easier for her than for the other healers. Now tears flooded her eyes as Simbelmynë drank, his face white and drawn from pain. She knew the exact moment when he saw the bindings on her broken arm and then looked up and recognized her, his killer and his savior.

"I was proud to be under your command," he said to her. She stared down at him, shocked. He had stood in her way and questioned her decisions time and time again… This strange Elf with old eyes and scarred face, a warrior named after the pretty white flower, _evermind_. She had always wanted to ask why, but had never dared. Even as she watched, his eyes closed and he exhaled in a tired sigh. His chest did not rise again.

She rose and took a staggering step away from him. Athelas, Simbelmynë…how would the remainder of her team fare? What of Eros, of Ithildin, who spoke so wisely of other worlds and who had studied the dances of the stars? Two already dead, from the four that she had once led.

Sariel felt unaccountably angry at the futility of it, that they fought and bled and died, and why? Because of Belderon's personal vendetta? She was so tired, eyes blurring from strain and unshed tears. She took a few deep breaths, the dam of emotions within her threatening the burst. One of the healers gave her a wet rag, a piece of cloth torn from the hem of a cloak, and gestured to another silver-haired Elf lying on the floor.

Half of his handsome face was a bloody ruin. _Like raw meat_, Sariel thought, and tried to banish the image as her gorge rose. She swallowed hard and then knelt, dipping the rag in a numbing solution and pressing it against his face. Blood soaked through within moments. She had set her flagon of poison besides her on the ground, and there it waited, to see if this Elf's wounds were fatal.

The Elf's cornflower blue eyes rolled around as if trying to see, and Sariel realized that he was blinded, perhaps permanently. He said something and Sariel blocked it out, making soothing noises in her already sore throat, having long before stopped bothering with words.

"Listen to me," he said again, this time too clearly to ignore. Sariel averted her eyes from his face and he seemed to sense it. In his desperation, he reached out and grabbed her left arm. Then he convulsed, so much so that it disturbed the other patients near him.

"Aurë," he said, over and over, when he lay still. Sariel did not understand. It meant day, sunlight, but what of it?

"Keep still and I will try to help you," she told him.

"If I die…" he said, voice harsh, "If I die, I want you to know….my name is Aurë."

Sariel looked down at his ravaged face and she thought again of how these Elves died so needlessly, not of disease, famine, or even old age, as humans did—no, this race died of war, and of heartbreak. Looking at Aurë, she knew it was too late for her this time. He was a person with a name and a face, more than just a body. His pale silver-moonlight hair reminded her of Belethil the Vala and of the song of making that she had heard at Belderon's death, the words sweet in her ear: _aurë entuluva, day shall come again…_

"There is poison in my eye," he said. "I cannot _see_…" His tone was anguished. Even so terribly wounded, the beauty of his features was striking, the cold, glittering fire of a diamond.

"Shhh," Sariel tried to sooth him. "It will heal." She could not be sure, however, if he would even live. All she could do was ease his agony as best she could. She wished desperately for her old box of poisons and powders; with that she could have tested and found out what poison it was, and perhaps she could have helped this once-beautiful Elf. His face would scar badly, but the worst of it was the loss of vision—or perhaps it was a blessing, for he would not see what he had become.

"Aurë," the whisper came from another Elf that lay besides Sariel's patient. "Is it you?"

Aurë recognized the voice and said again, in the same tone of heart-wrenching anguish, "I am _blind_…"

There was a long pause, and at last the Elf to his side spoke. "Ease my pain," he asked of Sariel, shuddering with pain and gritting his teeth. She silently picked up the flagon of poison and poured. The Elf drank deeply from the cup she gave him, then lay back and was still.

"Give me the cup to drink," Aurë whispered to Sariel, grasping at her hand again. "I no longer wish to suffer this."

Before she could pour, a healer hurried over to the two of them. "No," he said firmly to Sariel. "Do not listen to him. He will live. The wound does not threaten his life."

"Aenhir?" Aurë asked, turning sightlessly toward the healer. "Your voice…it is you."

"Yes, my friend. Be at peace, I will have Sariel will attend you," Aenhir said.

"You do not understand, Aenhir, _I cannot see_…"

Sariel did not understand. She knew it was grievous for this Elf to lose his sight, but nothing to warrant the utter desolation she heard in his tone. There was also a chance, albeit small, that damage might not be permanent.

Aenhir was silent, however, grasping at things that Sariel had not comprehended. "Death is a temptation you must resist," he said at last. "I grieve for your loss, Aurë, but you must not let go of hope."

"You may yet partially regain your sight," Sariel told Aurë. "If only I knew what poison it was, perhaps I would also know the cure."

"It is all the same," Aenhir said resignedly. "The orcs dip their blades and arrows in the sap of oleander. It is a plant with white flowers that have the delicate scent of almonds, yet it is as poisonous as the blossoms are beautiful."

"I have heard of it," Sariel admitted, "but have we not the antidote for something so common?"

"Not enough of it," the healer told her. "But I will give you some for his use."

"Let me go," Aurë begged of his friend. "Let me drink from the cup she bears."

Aenhir grasped Aurë's hand, grip so tight that Sariel could see his knuckles turn white from pressure. "You will survive, Aurë. Would you dishonor those who fought to protect what you give to our race?"

Aurë said nothing more and Aenhir left, called away by another healer desperate for help with a dying patient. Sariel did as she had been instructed, binding a poultice with the antidote over Aurë's eyes, her touch as light as she could make it.

"What is your sight to you, that you would give up life itself if you could not see?" she had to ask.

"Perhaps one day you will know," he replied bitterly. "Remember my name, Sariel, as I will always remember yours. You bear the cup of mercy and yet you would refuse me.

"I cannot give you death," she said, and for once, wished she could.

* * *

He hesitated too long, too often. Aragorn harried him, giving him no quarter, and soon Legolas was faltering, wounded. A cut on his forehead had blood streaming into his eyes, blinding him. He fought with the last of his strength, his blows weak and ineffective, his arm numb with the shock of taking the impact of so many blows. His left arm was all but useless; the orc that had sliced through his steel vambrace had cut through muscle and tendon alike, to the bone.

There was no stopping this specter of Aragorn and Legolas knew full well that even had he been well rested, he would have had trouble holding his own against his friend, who had been raised amongst Elves and knew well how they fought. _I could lose my life to him_, Legolas acknowledged. To _Aradrwyn, _rather than Aragorn, because however much the Man in front of him resembled his friend, he had no memory whatsoever of his life as Aragorn. It was kill or be killed, no matter how little he wished to even wound the other. It was hard to deny what his eyes saw in front of him.

Then the reprieve came, a moment when he saw the hole in Aradrwyn's guard. Legolas shut his eyes even as the tip of his sword darted toward an opening in Aradrwyn's armor, the vulnerable spot between breastplate and left shoulder. He was not aware of using particular strength, yet his thrust must have been forceful, and it was at such an angle that his blade slid in near Aragorn's heart.

No, not Aragorn, _Aradrwyn_… But the syllables were strange on his tongue, the name not enough to erase the years of memories between them.

That one moment that he had taken to go on the offensive had left Legolas defenseless against Aradrwyn sweeping sword. It bit into his shoulder deeply, the same shoulder that Sariel had stabbed a year ago. Both of them cried out in pain, almost simultaneously. Once, they had been two steadfast friends and now they had become the unthinkable—enemies that would fall to each other's sword. The eerie sound of their combined voices carried over the din of battle and many looked their way, aware that their leaders were locked in a life-or-death struggle.

Aradrwyn backed away, pulling free before Legolas' blade found its way fully to his heart, and yet he dropped to his knees. Legolas also staggered, blood spurting from his shoulder—but it was his left shoulder and his sword arm was unharmed, although it felt like a leaden weight. For a moment they stood staring at each other and Legolas almost thought there was a glimmer of recognition, of _something_.

His vision was blurred, but Legolas thought he saw a light behind Aradrwyn, a bright white glow that intensified until he was sure it was not just his imagination. He heard a high, shrill war cry and he gasped as he saw a female rider riding out of the light, bearing down fast on the two of them. He recognized the dark, flying hair and the pale face. _Arwen_. His own words to Sariel echoed mockingly in his mind: she should arrive here at any time now. She had come minutes too soon and would now watch as her beloved died a second death—or killed her. Faint with blood loss and fatigue, Legolas swayed and sank to his knees much as Aradrwyn had, watching in horror as Arwen dismounted and ran to Aradrwyn, clearly weaponless.

_No, _he wanted to cry out, _he is not your love, he is not Aragorn! Be 'ware, Arwen, let him not take your life! _But the words caught on his dry throat and his sword slipped out of his weak grasp and to the ground, its once shining blade dull with blood.

He watched in disbelief as the Evenstar of his people, clothed in white and shining with the light of the stars, embraced Aradrwyn. He could not understand why she had not yet been attacked, until Aradrwyn turned to meet his eyes and Legolas gazed dizzily at his opponent's face. In those eyes, he saw something different… Oh, how he saw! _Aragorn_ knelt there by the side of Arwen.

Legolas' vision blurred with tears. _Aragorn, _not Aradrwyn. By the grace of the Evenstar, by whatever she had brought with her in this final moment, the hold that Belderon had held over Aragorn had broken. That much was clear to all. Around them Elves and Orcs alike stopped their movements, sudden silence descending momentarily as all eyes turned to the three of them. Arwen knelt on the forest floor, holding Aragorn in her lap. Legolas closed his eyes, released from the burden he had carried since the start of the war.

_UNDÓMIEL! _The cry rose from a thousand throats. The sight of the Evenstar shining in her glory renewed their strength. Few of them were close enough to see, as Legolas had, the transformation Arwen had wrought. It did not matter. It was hope that she inspired in the Elves, just as Aragorn had once been Estel, hope of the people of Gondor. From the sounds of battle, Legolas knew that the Elves pressed on, fighting with more ferocity now that the orcs had begun to scatter. The end was coming.

He was hardly aware that he had fallen on his back until he felt the cool touch of Arwen's hand on his brow. Opening his eyes with effort, he saw that her grey eyes shone with tears. Her features grew indistinct in his vision and he knew that he had lost too much blood, the wound that Aragorn had given him too severe. Even as heavy darkness descended over him, his spirit felt free; he knew that they had defeated their enemies and protected their home. _We have won_, he thought calmly, glad that this he had accomplished at least. _Even if it means my life, it is worth it. _

* * *

Around her, the healers froze at their tasks, and Sariel herself heard the cry of the horns. Even though she did not recognize the pattern or the notes, the sound of joy was clear. _Take heart,_ the horns called triumphantly. _This is _our_ home._ She did not need to ask another Elf to know that it was the sound of victory. Fierce elation filled her even as she heard the multitude of voices raised in a single chant, _UNDÓMIEL! UNDÓMIEL!_

_Undómiel_, Sariel whispered in reply, in the silence of her mind. Arwen, the Evenstar, most beautiful of her people. She knew what it was then to feel pride in her race. It was a warmth that blossomed in her chest and spread throughout her body, banishing the numbness that had stolen over her limbs.

The moment was over too quickly, the sweetness of the cries fading beneath practical realities. Aenhir found her and handed her a new flagon of diluted poison, his hands clasping her cold ones briefly. Though his hands were clean, there was a smudge of blood on his left cheek.

"There will be those on the battlefield that are beyond our help," he said to her. "See to them. Also, make sure that the enemy, those wounded but living, are given a quick death." He gave similar instructions to another Elf he called over and then left them both.

Sariel obediently followed the other healer's lead. Outside of the tent, she was momentarily blinded by the light, though the late afternoon sun was not strong. The front lines of the final battle had been much closer than she would have thought, but then she remembered the hundreds of wounded Elves being brought in throughout the day. She averted her gaze from the rows of bodies on the ground, fearing to recognize their faces. She had helped send so many on the way to death today.

The area of conflict was large. She went from fallen body to fallen body, administering poison and sometimes calling over the healers to help with the injured ones who she thought could still be saved. The orcs she killed efficiently with her dagger; every troll and giant spider she saw was already dead, as those usually fought to the bitter end. She had some difficulty maneuvering at first, the cast around her broken arm interfering with her motions. With a little practice, she grew used to gripping the dagger loosely, since she could not easily curl her fingers around the handle.

She had never seen anything like this. There were so many dead, Elves and orcs alike, forsaken, ungainly. She had already known there was no dignity in such death, but she had not known that there was a special kind of horror. What she had seen in the healers' tents all day had only been a fraction of the dead, the lucky ones that were given a chance to survive. Many more lay where they had fallen. The bodies were sprawled among the trees, littered over the loam. Some were partially hidden by the trees as if the forest itself wanted to cover the sight. The earth had soaked up more blood than rain, in these last few months.

At the edge of the woods, where the trees thinned and a meadow stretched out, the grass was stained red. Great trees still burned and Elves labored to bring water to keep the flames from spreading farther. This was something she could help with, Sariel realized. Even as the thought occurred to her, she saw a rider on a sorrel mare stop before some other Elves in the distance. She could see the Elves pointed to her and then watched as the rider rode up to her. The movement seemed familiar; she caught her breath but did not dare to hope. He dismounted so lithely it almost looked like he had accidentally slipped off the horse.

Drawing back the hood of his cloak, Lianderthral's familiar green eyes stared out at Sariel. Perhaps it was just that she knew both so well now, or perhaps it was that the months that she had not seen him had changed him, or changed Legolas too much, but they bore less similarity than before. He had changed out of armor and probably had changed a set of clothes as well, for these were clean, with none of the marks of batttle.

Without a word, Lianderthral clasped her tightly to him, Sariel resting her head against his chest and hiding tears at his appearance. He was whole and unharmed, after all, and his heart beat strongly beneath her cheek. He had not escaped totally unscathed, for she could tell there were bandages, but they did not seem serious. Lianderthral, however, stiffened in alarm when he felt the hard cast on her arm and pulled back to look at it.

"Broken, but it will heal," Sariel assured him before he could ask. She did not voice fears that since her bone had fragmented rather than broken cleanly, there was a chance she would not regain use of her arm as before. She was so glad to see him, it pushed back all her other fears and doubts.

"Sariel, I wish we had more time to speak," Lianderthral said urgently. "Are you well?"

Was she well? The question caught Sariel by surprise after a full day of tending to those on the verge of death. Of course she was well. Yet when she opened her mouth to say it, she felt a startling lack of control, her eyes filling with unexpected control. She settled for a small nod, not trusting her voice.

Lianderthral had always been able to read her. He looked into her eyes searchingly and then settled his hands on her shoulders to ensure her attention. "I want—no, I _need_ to hear everything," he corrected himself, "but we cannot right now. Sariel, we must help stop the fires as only we two can."

Sariel nodded again, unable to stop herself from wondering how much Lianderthral _did _know of what had passed in the last three months. No matter. She was ready to let herself become a vessel of the elements once again. "Show me what to do, Lianderthral. I have not used my power very much. Please guide me."

It had scared her before, the way her ability to channel the elements had set her apart from the others, making her different in yet another way. Lianderthral had showed her, the day they had joined their powers together to bury her sister, that it was not always destructive. This was an opportunity to use her strange abilities for the benefit of all and she feared it no longer, not when Lianderthral was with her.

Two hours later, a much wearied Sariel and Lianderthral rode back to the healers' camp. Soft rain was starting to fall, turning the ground into mud where many feet had churned the loose earth. It was only then that Sariel saw Gimli, Vanidar, and Gandalf outside one of the main tents. One look at their faces and she knew that no matter that the Elves had won, this could not be called a victory.

"What is it, Mithrandir?" Lianderthral asked, sparing her the need for speech.

The wizard looked at Sariel first, however. "Aragorn and Legolas fought and dealt many wounds to each other before Arwen came. With her father's help, she had found some way to break the power Belderon held over Aragorn. He remembers everything now, though should he survive, I am not certain how this will all affect him."

"Should he survive?" Sariel echoed, her stomach twisting in knots. She looked at the tent as if her worst nightmare had come true.

"Aye, and Legolas lies within as well," Gimli told her wretchedly. "The healers requested that no one disturb them, though Arwen has not left Aragorn's side."

As if the Dwarf's words had some effect on the weather, the skies at last opened up and rain poured from the heavy storm clouds. The distraction gave the others a reason to let her pass without a word of dissent.

Once inside the tent, she could not immediately see where Aragorn and Legolas were. It was similar to the tent she had been in earlier in the day. The floor was covered with rows of patients and there were healers circulating throughout the area. There were many basins of reddened water and blood-soaked cloth. Picking her way through the rows, Sariel finally saw the cluster of robed healers, busily removing the armor from their patients. A rust-colored length of _mithril_ was passed from one healer to another, and Sariel could not tear her eyes away from it, knowing that Legolas must have worn the mail shirt. The healers rearranged themselves after the patients were stripped of armor, giving Sariel a glimpse at the center of the group.

Arwen was beside Aragorn, his face cradled between her hands, her head bent. Sariel looked first at Aragorn and then at Legolas, so numb she could not even shed a tear. They were both unconscious. She did not know if it made it easier or worse.

"Here now, Sariel," she heard a familiar voice, and turning, she saw Aenhir. "Stay here awhile," he said, caught in the grip of strong emotion. "They may have need yet of the flagon you hold in your hands." She stared at him, fascinated to see dark grey eyes glassy with liquid; he had not noticed that she no longer bore the poison. She had not seen him so moved today, save for when he stood by Aurë's side.

It was only then that the meaning of his words registered in her mind, and she shook her head slowly, disbelieving, or maybe only unwilling to accept the truth.

"Make way for the king," someone said, and she was pulled to the side. Golden-haired Thranduil rushed to his son's side, clasping limp hands between his own. Sariel pushed her way to the other side of the cot, despite the healers around her. Legolas lay so still, so pale. There was blood everywhere, but his pale hair was oddly untouched by it, and her hands crept out to touch it, remembering the feeling of it against her cheek.

"Send a messenger to the queen," she heard someone say. She watched it all as if in a dream. Once, the king turned to look directly at her, but Sariel paid him no attention. Though Arwen hovered between the two, she said nothing; Sariel was not sure if the other Elf had even noticed her presence. No one tried to force her to leave. Later, she heard, "All right, the most we can give him now is peace and quiet. There are others that need our help."

Only now did Sariel have a moment to think, while watching him struggle to live. It brought back memories of another time she had stood like the shadow of death hovering over him. He would live, she reassured herself. She could not believe otherwise. He would live, and pick up the pieces of his life that she had destroyed.

Then she would be free to leave. She had nowhere to go, but the feeling that seized her now, clawing its way through her body, filled her with the need to escape. Was she trying to run from him or from herself? It did not matter. She had been blinded by her emotions, all the sentiments that had been forbidden to her for so long. It was natural that she would be confused. He acted as if he needed her, and yet had he chosen another—as he should have. Only now was it all clear, when she saw again how close to death he was, because of her. Whether it was a stiletto, a war, or a flagon of poison, she brought only death to those around her. If he lived, she would not endanger his life again, even if it meant saying goodbye for good.

* * *

A/N: I've put a lot of time and effort into this, so please take a moment to **review**. Especially if you've read this far without commenting, because I'd love to hear what you think so I can improve.

_Finalized August 2010_


	23. The Arrows of Eros

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

A/N: Most of this part on Mirkwood is from my own imagination since there isn't much to go by. Tolkien wrote more about Rivendell/Lórien than about the Wood-Elves, who "differed from the High Elves of the West, and were more dangerous and less wise." Ehh. At least "their magic is strong." Also, I had the distinct impression that Elves 1) do not like caves because 2) they're rather claustrophobic. Yet I combed _The Hobbit _in an attempt to find out more about Thranduil's Hall and caverns is what I got.

These are some _really old_ responses to reviews:

1. If Elves "just aren't" evil, please read up on Eöl (poison? tries to kill his son?) and realize that in the original version of a story from the Silmarillion, Tolkien even wrote that he raped the sister of King Turgon. No one is that infallible, let alone a whole race.

2. As for "Arwen wouldn't be weeping like that, she would be quietly fading," let me just ask one thing—do you _really _want to read about people "quietly fading"?

3. "No one would kill off Aragorn in a story" – take a look around in the LOTR section. There's slash, LegolasxGimli, and Elrond-and-BDSM stories. This is why it's called fanfiction, the place to 'unleash your imagination and free your soul.' I admire Tolkien, but that doesn't mean I want to write like him. It goes along with my inability to imagine Legolas crying 'Ai!' Even with a Balrog around.

Translation:

_aelin_: lake, pool, mere (plural form)

_nelladel_: ringing of bells

**Chapter 23: The Arrows of Eros**

He only opened his eyes because pain pulled him out of the peaceful, insensate darkness. Even the dim light set new explosions of hurt through his head and he barely bit back a muffled groan as he struggled to stay conscious. Each breath seemed as if it would not be enough, but his throat was so dry that even the small amount of air he sucked in nearly made him choke.

"Drink this," someone told him, and he obediently did so, grateful for even the bitter medicinal liquid. It eased his pain, but took away his will.

"Aragorn?" he asked, his own voice sounding far away.

Sleep dragged him down before he could hear the answer that he was not sure he wanted to hear.

The next time he woke, he was able to slowly take in his surroundings before his slight movements alerted those around him. There were two people in the room with him, one covered with a cloak and sleeping in a chair next to his bed. This was no regular healing tent; he must have been moved. He looked into Eros' relieved eyes and allowed her to help him up, silent even when she had to raise a cup to his lips for him. He gulped down the cool water thirstily, glad he was spared from more of the medicine.

"You scared me," Eros told him, eyes wet despite the smile she was giving him. "Even the best of our healers feared for you."

"How long?" he managed. From her appearance, he knew that it must have been some time.

"Long enough that it is all over," Eros answered distractedly. "You had internal injuries, too." Rather than continuing, she reached over and gently shook awake the slumbering form in the chair.

Even before dark blue eyes pierced him through in an intense look, Legolas knew exactly who it was. She snapped awake as if she had never been sleeping. When she realized that he, too, was awake, a half-dozen emotions flickered across her face as he watched with fascination.

Eros had been speaking to him, but it took a moment for Legolas to recall what she had just said. Reluctantly, he shifted his gaze away from Sariel. "Six days? It has been six days?"

"You have not missed much," Sariel said as calmly as she could. Now that she could see with her own eyes that he was on his way to healing, she seemed tense. She was sitting forward on the very edge of the chair, looking like a bird about to be startled into flight.

"What about Aragorn?" He knew better than to try to rise, but it was hard to control himself. "Where is Arwen? My father?"

"Quiet," Eros ordered firmly, and then began to relate to him everything he had missed. Aragorn's injuries had not been as grave as they first thought, though witnesses to the battle he had fought against Legolas had sworn that they had seen him more grievously hurt. No one had the heart to ask so many questions, though, and most attributed it to another gift from the grace of the Evenstar. Physically, Aragorn was coming along fine—though spiritually, not even the best healers ventured to guess.

"You are the one who has fared worse," Eros told him. "We have all taken watch over you. Gimli, Vanidar, Lianderthral—they have all been here."

"Arwen is well," Sariel added quietly. There were dark shadows under her eyes and she fixed her gaze on his hand rather than his face. "Everyone is as well as can be expected… except for you. No one else came so close to death."

"It would have been worth it, if it returned Aragorn to Arwen's side," Legolas said without thinking.

The color fled her face at his words and Sariel rose, putting on the cloak that she had been using as a blanket. She moved somewhat stiffly and he wondered if she was hiding injuries other than her broken arm. "I will tell the others that you have woken and leave you two to speak alone."

Before either of them could object, she had already left the room. The door closed behind her with a quiet click, leaving them both in silence. A slight sigh escape Legolas and Eros fixed her golden brown eyes on him at the sound.

"She almost never left, Legolas. Everyone has been here, but she always stayed."

Despite knowing her so well and for so long, Legolas found it hard to face her now. "It was difficult for you, was it not?" His voice dropped, but he forced the words out, reaching out to hold her hand in his, even though moving hurt. "I never wanted it to be like this between us."

She shook her head in denial. "You gave me some cause to believe, but it was I who presumed. You cannot be responsible for this, Legolas."

He reached up to lightly touch her shorn hair. Her honeyed curls were short, but still silky to the touch. He remembered when they had fallen to her waist; it was not so very long ago. "Still, I am sorry for it. Things have changed too much."

"You need to talk to her," Eros told him in a low voice. "Legolas, you really need to talk to her."

* * *

She had been to the Elven strongholds of Imladris and Lothlórien, but Eryn Lasgalen was unlike either. Though she had been careful not to form expectations, Sariel had heard descriptions from Eros and the others from her team of their homes. Athelas had considered her one of them, even though Sariel had never had a glimpse of regular life here in Eryn Lasgalen. The closest she had seen was the whirlwind of preparations before the war.

All while Legolas had lain, so gravely injured that it took four days before the healers even stopped speaking as though he could die at any moment, Sariel had not dared to venture outside of his room. They had moved him from the shelter of the battlefield tent to the palace at one point, but it had all been a blur to her.

Now, she was astounded yet again when she saw how many Elves there were, even with their numbers decimated by battle. There were more Elves around the palace at present because so many had been injured during the war and were being tended even now. In the long months that had passed, she had seen only a few of them at once, since they had all been so spread out. She had grown used to thinking that they usually lived such solitary lives.

Although most of Thranduil's Wood-elves lived away from the Elvenking's Hall, she nevertheless was amazed at the size of the caverns that made up the palace. Legolas' room was just one in a series that was almost as confusing as a maze. She found herself reaching out to touch the smooth, marble-like walls, shivering at the feel of the unyielding and cold rock. It reminded her a little of Belderon's stone fortress.

Though she had known all the while that Legolas was the prince of Mirkwood, though she had been constantly reminded of it during the war as he was her commander, she had never really imagined what it would be like to be in the kingdom to which he belonged. She knew that this forest was once Greenwood the Great, that it became Mirkwood when Sauron's darkness had overtaken the southern part of the forest, and that it was now Eryn Lasgalen…but all these were simply names to her.

Even when Thranduil and Legolas had served as generals for the Elves during the war, she had not truly associated it with their royal lineage. There was an entire society here, an entirely different kind of world, that she had not known. As an assassin, she had come and gone without truly entering that world.

Now, Sariel wandered through seemingly endless linked halls and caverns, realizing that she had not even begun to understand the complexity of life here. This was a woodland realm, but they did not live like savage animals. There was a King and his advisors, a court, a system that was almos as foreign to her as the kingdoms of Men. This was the very place where such events had taken place that had led to her family's demise and ultimately, her evolution from Elven child to assassin.

There was a lot of death to remember. Athelas was gone, Simbelmynë as well. Only Ithildin, Eros, and herself were left from her team. She knew that Simbelmynë had not left behind any family, but Athelas…if there were Elves she should have found and should have told, she did not know. He had never spoken of anyone to her, at least.

Sometimes she woke up from nightmares she could only remember vaguely, full of the faces of dead people. Some days, she wondered if she had more connections to the dead than to the living. Time passed and her arm healed, but her father's sword remained broken and though she thought about inquiring over whether it could be reforged, she did not.

After all, it was a small reprieve that no one recognized her yet. Her story had most certainly spread—everyone, probably, knew at least parts of it—but the Elves were grieving. Such things had not yet become important. She wondered if she would be punished for her crime against their prince now that the war was over, but she could not imagine Legolas standing idly by as his people killed her.

She was also officially a guest of the king, though that had been a blanket courtesy extended to all of Legolas' companions. As it had been before the war, the others were much busier than she, since they all had duties left over from the war. Most of the time, she still did not see them. Nor had she met either king or queen, and Sariel was thankful to pass below their notice.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said of Legolas. Ever since she had walked out the day he had woken up, she had avoided him like the plague. It was much easier than she had expected, since he was mostly still confined to his bed. The injuries Aragorn had inflicted on him were bad, but it had been blood loss that had brought him to death's door, so after the first few days, worry over his health was not enough to compel Sariel to find him. The days passed by slowly, but they still passed. She had almost never left when he was asleep, and now she was never there when he was awake. The others entreated her to see him, but no one brought it up more than once, except for Eros.

Whenever Eros told her that Legolas wanted to see her, Sariel could only try to end the conversation and leave as soon as she could. She held too many mixed emotions toward the other Elf and she was ashamed of them all.

* * *

"We will be leaving in soon," Arwen told her about a week after Legolas had woken up. The news did not come as a surprise and yet something about it triggered new fears and doubts in Sariel. She had been spending a lot of time with the two.

Aragorn had been recovering well and the fever which had so worried the healers had passed under Arwen's unstinting care. His eyes, however lucid, were still dull and dark with sorrow. More than once, Sariel had waited outside just outside the room, standing next t o the other side of the door. She did so mutely, awash in guilt, unable to bring herself to leave when she knew that inside, Arwen held long, tearful conversations with her king and beloved.

It was the least that she could do—at least she had to bear witness to this. It was because of her part in Belderon's schemes that they had suffered as much as they had. Aragorn was a changed man, not only because he had once died, but also because of what he had done in that period of living death. Now, in the painful clarity of the aftermath, he had been horrified by his actions even though they were not truly of his doing. Sariel knew, from quiet words exchanged with Arwen, that Aragorn's relationship with his future queen was not well. How could it be, after what had happened? After Lessena? Arwen had not even told him about the secret that she shared with Sariel and the others: that Aragorn, in his violation of Sariel's sister, had fathered a child that could never be born.

Perhaps Sariel should have talked to Aragorn about it, at least about her sister. She could have offered some comfort. Yet they both knew that such comforting words would merely be lies, for Lessena truly had known nothing but terror at Aragorn's hands, and he could make no amends to her now, after she had given up her own life.

Still, they were healing, Aragorn and Arwen. All of them were, and Sariel was glad for it. She could not feel comfortable around Aragorn again, and he could not with her—Lessena was a specter between them, and the horror of his deeds was still too strong for both of them.

The news that they were departing for Gondor was a relief in some ways, too. She understood why they felt the need to leave, for she felt the same need. Arwen hoped that in his own land, where he was king, Aragorn might find some measure of peace again. Boromir, too, would depart with them. As for the people of Gondor, with news that their king was back… Sariel wondered what they would think, but felt sure that in the end, they would love their valiant king and compassionate queen.

"Gondor is my home now," Arwen told her the last night before they departed. Sariel was helping her make an electuary for Aragorn, showing Arwen what powders to use and how much of each to mix into the medicine.

They finished silently while Sariel though about Athelas and now Arwen using that term. _Home_. What did it really mean? It was such an elusive description. She knew that despite all that they had already been through, Arwen still had more sacrifices to make.

"Are you afraid?" she asked. She was leaving her home, leaving her people, leaving behind even her Elven life…

"Only a fool would not be." Arwen accepted the jar of honey Sariel gave her, adding it to her supplies. "Do not be concerned for my sake, Sariel. I am happy now that he has been returned to me. I am happier than I can express, even if you find it hard to believe."

The Evenstar gave her a smile that was as clear and brilliant as starlight on ice, and Sariel found herself believing, after all. The sudden rush of fondness that she felt for Arwen came close to undoing her. She so wanted to tell Arwen everything—Eros, the ring, the whole sorry mess with Legolas, even Lianderthral. After all, she would not have the chance to have Arwen as a confidante again.

It was unfair to add to Arwen's burdens, though, so Sariel bit back the words and settled for drawing her friend into a tight embrace. Even after the last year and a half, it was strange, yet comforting, to be in direct contact with someone else. Arwen had been the first to truly offer her friendship, for no reason other than that she wanted to do so. Though Sariel had met others since then, it was not the same.

When Arwen drew back, she peered into Sariel's face as if reading her every worry. "Everything else will ease with time," she said soothingly. "It has always been our greatest blessing, and our greatest curse."

In the morning, Sariel watched them go calmly, and began to think again of leaving too.

* * *

With things settling down after the war and Elves departing to return to Rivendell, the days passed more quickly than Sariel had expected. With few demands on her time, she found herself in Lianderthral's company again more often than not. More often than not, the companions that had arrived in Eryn Lasgalen together were now apart. There were few of them left, in any case. She had not spoken directly to Gandalf in months, since the wizard was almost always with the king. Boromir and Arwen had left, leaving only Gimli and Vanidar. She continued to avoid Legolas, which limited her interactions with the rest of them.

Lianderthral provided an easy familiarity when she found her surroundings too new and too strange. No one had taken much notice of her even now, probably since she stayed safely far away from Legolas, but Sariel still found it hard to be comfortable. Life had begun to resume for the Elves of Eryn Lasgalen, and although their court clearly differed from those of human kingdoms, every society had its elites. More and more, Sariel saw the court return to what it must have normally been like, before the war.

It made her feel more like a stranger than ever and made it that much harder to deny herself the pleasure of Lianderthral's attentiveness and special consideration for her. Though she did not completely understand it, she also knew that it was because of him that she had whatever little status she had in the complex social world that was currently rebuilding itself. Sariel would never have doubted it, but she was still surprised to realize just how many people Lianderthral knew and how many admired him. He had been one of the top leaders in the war, of course, yet Sariel had been in the south rather than in the north, where apparently he had inspired much affection.

They were still friends, at the very least—he was still her closest and best friend, in fact, though she was beginning to wonder if she was his. She had been able to tell him everything, but it was only when she truly thought about it that she realized he probably could not tell her much. The realization hurt more than she expected, but then, it was likely because she had never expected it in the first place.

Sometimes something would slip into those very emerald eyes of his, a heat that both warmed and frightened her. She was not entirely blind. She knew things were unequal between them, that he almost certainly held a different kind of feelings for her than she did for him. For all that he knew she loved him, it was not the kind of love that he wished for, in the deepest part of his heart. But Lianderthral knew, too, that there was someone else that she could not forget any more than she could forget her past.

These were the reasons why she did not tell him about Eros and why neither of them brought up her avoidance of Legolas. Even beneath the calm surface of their relationship, there were strong currents that threatened the peace. He knew she was restless, though he had probably not guessed that she had actually thought of leaving. She could see him fitting in here more easily than in either Lothlórien or Imladris, for the Wood-Elves were less scholarly than the High Elves of the West. With their wildness was the truth that their ties to magic were stronger. They were more accepting and understanding of Lianderthral because of it.

Sariel could see how he changed, growing more at ease when those around him did not instinctively fear him for reasons they could not even understand themselves. This could be a home for Lianderthral if he wished it, she realized. So she did not tell him that she feared she could never adapt to the subtleties of this court and woodland realm, and continued to let him introduce her to a lady here, an acquaintance there. His efforts were as subtle as they could be, but she noticed them all—sometimes thankfully, sometimes a little resentfully.

When she was feeling most cynical and bitter, she wondered if she was not using him, or if he was using her. Or perhaps they were only using each other, neither getting what they really wanted but both realizing that they at least still had each other and that was all that mattered. It was almost enough.

* * *

Things were different when Legolas was up and walking again, having healed swiftly as Elves do, especially as he received the best care. Sariel was only willing to go so far as to avoid talking to him and that did not extend to refusing to see him when he came and knocked on her door. It was with some relief that she had opened it to find Legolas accompanied by Vanidar as well as Eros, but that reprieve had quickly disappeared when she heard him out.

Between the shock of seeing him again and the pressure of having Vanidar and Eros also present, Sariel found herself acquiescing far too readily. Legolas had suggested that he and Eros would show Sariel and Vanidar around the palace and surrounding area. He had also insisted that it was not too soon for him to be walking around and it was true that he needed the rehabilitation, so Sariel found that it was virtually impossible for her to refuse. At least having four people during the daily walks would make it difficult for private conversations to occur.

There were caves and caves inside Thranduil's Hall and they were nearly all connected to each other. Most did not even given the inhabitants the impression of being surrounded by stone, for over the many years, the Elves had slowly transformed the rooms into places of comfort and beauty. If Eryn Lasgalen lacked the elegance of Imladris or the fairy-tale aura of Lothlórien, it had its own aesthetics to offer.

Privately, during one of the subsequent walks, Sariel wondered if Legolas had planned this all along while he had been confined to bed and unable to do anything. It seemed as if this was his response to her clear refusal to see him alone. It might have even been his attempt to do the same thing Lianderthral was trying: to ease her into life here at Eryn Lasgalen. Whatever his intentions, it was true that while Sariel still kept to herself, at least she no longer felt like a trespasser when she was outside of the room she had been given.

At the same time, she did not know how much unwelcome attention their explorations were also rousing until the fourth night. She should have expected it—she would have expected it, even, except that she had finally relaxed her guard. Legolas had not tried to talk to her yet, though she knew it was only a matter of time. Her fears that she would have to watch a thousand little romantic exchanges between him and Eros were unfounded; they acted as if they were intimate friends, but no more intimate than Vanidar and herself.

So it came as a complete surprise when someone suddenly decided to join their party. One look at the dark-haired female Elf and Sariel knew that this was not someone seeking to wish their prince a speedy recovery. There was something hostile and frightening in the stranger's manner that made Sariel glad she was never unarmed. They did not have to wait long to understand.

"Murderer," she spat at Sariel, blue-green eyes angry and accusatory.

Legolas stepped forward to meet the Elf, but the stranger sidestepped him and came face to face with Sariel. "_You!_ How dare you come here? How dare you return, when you have killed so many here?"

"Stop—" Legolas tried to grab at her arm to lead her away, but she avoided him, never even taking her eyes off Sariel.

"I know it was you. Aelin was dead beside me when I woke and they could not explain it, but I know it was you!"

It was almost like one of her nightmares come to life and Sariel was completely unprepared for it. Fear and guilt trickled down her spine, making her throat tighten. She hardly had time to blink before pain blossomed across her cheek—the hot, stinging pain made involuntary tears come to her eyes, but her lack of reaction only infuriated the Elf more. Sariel stood and stared in disbelief as the stranger drew a knife from its sheath at her waist.

It did not occur to her that she could easily block the attack, that at the very least, she should avoid it. Even with a broken arm, she had been trained in hand-to-hand combat. From the way the hand that held the knife against Sariel's neck trembled, it was clear that the other Elf was not even committed to killing her.

Legolas, then Eros, was interfering then, and the knife dropped harmlessly to the ground with a clatter. The stranger's scream of fury echoed through the room. The words that now came from her were mostly incoherent, but Sariel understood anyway.

It had to be the wife of one of her victims, though she did not know who it had been, did not even remember the name or had blocked it out of her memory.

"_Cease_." It was Legolas and even Sariel quailed a little under the authority in his voice. Whatever it was that was in his soft yet intense command, it did the deed, for the Elf stopped struggling.

"Forgive me, my prince," she pleaded, "but you do not know what you allow by your side. She is a viper, a killer—"

Vanidar clapped a hand over her mouth, only to take it away again when Legolas gave him a hard look and a quick shake of his head.

Blind fury was turning into tears now and Sariel's attacker stood with her head bowed, hair falling forward to partially cover her face. Sariel's hand had crept up to cover the side of her face and she pressed her fingers into her hot cheek as she watched Legolas turn surprisingly compassionate.

"Listen to me," he began earnestly, and then hesistated. "I have seen you before at my father's councils, have I not? What is your name?"

"Nelladel," came her reply, still laced with defiance. Her shocking blue-green looked at Legolas for a moment before flicking away.

"Nelladel, will you hear me out?" The room was so quiet that the Elf's ragged breaths could be heard clearly, but she finally nodded her consent.

Unfazed, Legolas let go of her arm and bent down to pick up the knife. He offered it back to her but she did not reach out to take it. "To save Aelin, what would you have done, Nelladel? You have surely heard some of the tales about Sariel, though I doubt anyone knows the true story but herself. What would you have done in her place?"

Spurred by his words, her hand darted out and her fingers curled around the hilt of the dagger so tightly that her knuckles turned completely white. "I would not have turned myself into an assassin, if that is what you are asking me."

"Are you sure? Are you so certain that you would swear on Aelin's honor?"

For a moment it looked as if the Elf would attack him and Eros stirred, ready to defend Legolas if needed. Nelladel had opened her mouth to reply, but closed it again, silent.

"It is a difficult question," Legolas continued. "Fortunately, none of us have ever been placed in a position where the truth of the answer would be tested."

"I would not trade one life for many," Nelladel told him, wavering between fresh grief and anger.

"What if Aelin had been bound and kept in a dark, dank room, but unable to let himself die? What if the only thing you knew in the world was your family—not ideals of honor or beliefs about good and evil, but just two people that meant everything?" Legolas asked the questions dispassionately, forcing reason over emotion, understanding over the murkier area of morals.

"I want vengeance for my husband," Nelladel said in a low voice and Sariel looked away, unable to stand watching for another moment.

"And you do not think Sariel wants revenge as well?" he retorted. "She chose life over death, whatever the price. It does not make what she did any more right, but she was as much victim as your beloved. What agony you have faced, she has faced as well, and more, for the guilt that hovers like a shadow over her spirit."

"She killed Aelin. She has killed others, too." Nelladel looked at Eros, then Vanidar, as if trying to understand why they had not turned on Sariel. Seeing only expressions of compassion, she became uncertain. "I have heard that she nearly took your life as well—"

"Yes," Legolas interrupted. "I do not deny it."

Sariel made some small sound then and he turned to spare her a glance for a bare moment before focusing back on Nelladel, continuing relentlessly. "Yet it is only because she stopped herself, and because of what she has done since, that we are all here, rather than more victims of Belderon's intent to have this forest and everything in it exterminated."

"You would have her go free," Nelladel whispered. "You would have her live in comfort, when she has denied others even their lives."

"My lady, I understand your pain, your loss. I knew Aelin; he was one of my father's advisors who had passed judgment upon Belderon's son, and then Belderon." Legolas swallowed hard and his voice was raspy with emotion when he finally continued. "They are all lost to us, Nelladel—my sister, your Aelin. Nothing can bring them back or spare them from the fate they suffered. Yet Sariel has survived the horrors Belderon has heaped upon her, bending rather than breaking. She has atoned for what she has done. Even now, she seeks redemption. I cannot command you to let go of your grief and I would not ask you to forgive her. Yet would you deny her this chance to live, she who is Belderon's greatest victim?"

The silence in the room was only broken by Nelladel's soft sobs, but at some point more than a few others had entered. They all stood as silently as Sariel, Eros, and Vanidar did, but Legolas' words clearly affected some even as they had Nelladel.

"Then what?" she asked brokenly. "What would you have me do?"

"I ask that you do not seek vengeance." Legolas took her hand in his and guided it to her waist, where they sheathed the knife together. "I ask that you to hear her story, to break the cycle of pain that the past has handed down through the years. Even if you cannot bring yourself to forgive her then, I ask that you let go of your desire for reprisal."

Nelladel nodded once, sharply; it was all she could manage, under the circumstances. Legolas looked up then, scanning the faces of the Elves who had come into the room. He beckoned to one and the Elf stepped forward to talk to Nelladel, leading her away without any objection from her.

When she was gone, most of the Elves dispersed, but Sariel found herself at the center of attention again. Far too aware of how many were looking at or toward her, she fixed her gaze on the floor much as Nelladel had done. She felt hollow inside, even after hearing Legolas' pretty speech—because that was all it was, really. Hearing Nelladel's words had been like having someone carve her from inside out.

She had never, in all the years that she had killed, seen the aftermath. Why would she? She had never lingered after she had completed an assignation; she had come and gone usually with no one the wiser, leaving Elves to die of mysterious causes behind. She had never met any of the people left behind after her actions, save for the special case of Legolas. Sariel had _known_, of course; she had reasoned and imagined. But she had never had to see it in merciless reality.

Knowing that people had died because of a war she had brought to Eryn Lasgalen was one thing. Nelladel, Aelin, was different. It was personal. She, personally, had killed Nelladel's beloved. She felt sick at the very thought.

"I will walk you back to your room," Legolas told her, less an offer than a statement.

The goodbyes were subdued as Eros and Vanidar left. Silently, Legolas accompanied her back to the chamber she had been given. All the way back, he offered no comment, but then she probably could not have held onto her calm if he had made any reference to what had just happened.

Sariel entered her room first and then hesitated, unsure whether he meant to come in or to go. The whole encounter with Nelladel had absurdly broken whatever tension had been between them. She was not even thinking about the conversation they would still have to have, about the ring.

Instead, Legolas stood in the doorway and she felt his eyes on her. Sariel looked down, noting the delicate pattern of green leaves that edged his clothing. She felt as though she should perhaps thank him, for he had certainly just saved her, had he not? But the words would not come, perhaps because she lacked the confidence to say them. While she was thinking of something to say, she flinched when Legolas brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek ever so gently, and he let his hand drop away.

"You will bruise," he remarked, and started walking away. She stared after him, confused but somewhat relieved. When a few minutes had passed and he showed no sign of returning, she closed her door and went to sit at the table, resting her head in her arms and trying not to think too much.

Loud knocking startled her out of her thoughts so much that she slammed her elbow into the edge of the table as she hastily rose. Her hand was already posed on the doorknob when she hesitated, suddenly realizing it could be Nelladel, coming to face her when she was alone. She could more than defend herself, though. Telling herself not to be unreasonable, Sariel opened the door.

Legolas brushed past her without waiting for her invitation and set something on the table, a small earthenware pot with a lid. "A salve, for your face," he told her when she just stared at him.

"Thank you," she said automatically, before she became annoyed with herself for feeling a little burst of joy that he had cared enough. Seeing that he was not about to leave soon, she took the seat to his side rather than across from him.

"Nelladel took the loss hard, when Aelin died. She would have followed him, if not for her children." He took up the bottle of salve and played idly with it, his long, lean fingers handling it delicately.

There was nothing she could say to that, but Sariel felt as if she had to try, anyway. The words came out awkwardly, too formal. "I am…sorry for causing you this trouble." And, because she felt that their relationship had irreparably changed, she tried to find a new, neutral way to define it. "You should not have needed to say what you did today…my prince."

She almost could not get the title out and it did not sound offhand as she had tried to make it. She made herself look into his eyes and was surprised at the odd flash of something—worry? pain? gratification?—in his eyes.

The bottle slipped from his fingers and dropped to the table with a sound like it had broken. She reached to catch it before it could roll off and fall to the floor; he reflexively did so at the same time. Her fingers brushed his and she snatched them away, then regretted the self-conscious motion. He caught the bottle without looking and set it on the table again.

"Do not call me that," he said softly. She could not bear it, she looked away so that he would not see the confusion in her eyes. She had heard others addressing him that way—she thought it was probably informal, compared to the way humans did things. It was still an acknowledgement, though, a sign of respect for his position here. Even Vanidar sometimes used it and he was from Lothlórien, thus no official subject of the royal family of Eryn Lasgalen.

"You are a prince," she said uncomfortably. "I know now that the others here—the lords and ladies…they will not like it if I presumed to call you by name."

He studied her with dark, serious eyes. "Do you care so much what they think?"

"I was merely trying to address you…properly." She looked away first, fumbling with the weak excuse.

"Please do not." He stared down at the table, at the way she was sitting at an oblique angle from him. "Sariel, about what I wanted you to give—"

"No—" She stood up in agitation, chair scraping across the floor.

"—to Eros…" Legolas stopped. "I need to tell you, Sariel."

It burst out of her. "Have you ever considered that I do not need to hear it? You think I want to know why?"

"You do not understand…"

"No," she agreed, cutting him off. She was almost trembling with anger. Pieces of his impassioned speech to Nelladel flashed through her mind and though it had saved her, it was too easy, the way he had deftly manipulated words to persuade someone who had truly been wronged. "No, I do not. And maybe I do not _want _to understand. Please leave, _Legolas_."

He could make her believe anything, when he said the right things to her. Had already done so, before. She shut her eyes tight, counting under her breath to ten, allowing herself to see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing.

When she opened her eyes again, he was gone. It was a long time before Sariel remembered the salve and she chose not to use it. She would rather bear the mark of Nelladel's hand on her face. She did not know who she was angrier with—Legolas, or herself.

* * *

It was near sunset when Sariel's restless energy drove her outdoors. Despite everything that had already happened that day, staying in her room simply reminded her of the confrontation that had taken place there only a few hours ago. Again and again, it replayed in her mind, until she only wanted to escape. She tied back her hair in twin braids, pinned it into a coronet, and then dressed herself in a nondescript black cloak with a hood. She had no wish to encounter any others and the hood shadowed her face, disguising her a little. She simply wanted to everything—the palace, the court, the king, and most especially, the prince.

Later, she realized she could not exactly say that she found it. The secret glade seemed to have found her, because one moment she was walking next to a rock cliff at a fast pace, and another moment she was standing still at the heart of a beautiful glade, gazing in awe at the rocky tumble of stone and the small waterfall. She had unwittingly slipped through a small crack between the rocky walls, which hid this new place.

It looked like an enchanted place and untouched, though she though that surely others had found this place before. The air was sweet and when Sariel bent down to touch the water, it was icy cold. The tiny waterfall had formed a small creek that rushed swiftly off into the distance.

She saw something silver out of the corner of her eye and she walked over to see what it was, her curiosity getting the better of her. One of the stones by the side of the creek was formed like a shallow bowl and it held a gleaming silver-chained bracelet. Picking it up, she saw that it had only one charm, a small music note. It looked as if it had been left by someone who had used this as their hiding place; surely something so fine would not be accidentally forgotten. Replacing it, she found another stone further down that made a comfortable seat.

She lingered by the creek. There was peace to be found here; the only sound was wind and water, and she found herself relaxing. Only a little later did she wonder if it had anything to do with her affinity to the elements. Here, three out of the four existed in their purest, untainted forms. She let her fingers drift in the water, where they were pleasantly numbed. She closed her eyes, listening to the gentle sound of the wind echoing in the enclosed, rocky area. With every deep breath she took, she smelled damp earth mingled with the clean, fresh scent of living and growing things.

On a sudden whim, she picked up a piece of dry wood and set fire to it, holding the burning twig above the water. The wind fed the fire until the flame was as long as her hand. The ashes of the twig fell onto the rich black earth, and when the flame grew too near her hand, Sariel let it fall into the water, where for an instant it flickered and then died. She felt oddly as though the meaningless ritual had eased the ugly anger and grief she had felt ever since the war. It reminded her of the fundamental things in life so that she was able to let go of some of the smaller details.

She was tempted not to go back, but the thought of Lianderthral's worry prompted her to return a few hours after complete dark.

* * *

She had almost returned to her room when she heard the sound of laughter from another passage that joined the one leading to her room. Eros' room was in that area and indeed, Sariel recognized her voice.

"I am still well enough and happy, now," Sariel heard Eros exclaim, and though the cheer in her voice seemed slightly forced, Eros sounded sincere. Laughter was not heard very much these days, in any case. Sariel turned toward the passageway, thinking to join Eros now that her own mood had improved. The door to Eros' room was open, but she already had a guest on her doorstep. As abruptly as that, Sariel's amusement evaporated.

Even as she watched, Eros came out to where Legolas was standing. She shook her head in some gesture of nonchalance, the springing honey-streaked brown curls catching and diffusing the light into a warm halo. Legolas was facing Eros and away from Sariel, but she could see him lean toward the other Elf to say something.

For a moment, Sariel actually wanted to go closer so she could hear what was being said. Instead, her feet seemed frozen with her indecision. She knew that she should leave before they noticed her, but she could not seem to turn away from the scene unfolding before her. The open doorway framed the two perfectly. Legolas appeared to be doing most of the speaking, then he grasped Eros' hand in his and pulled her close into a light embrace. He murmured something to her and then turned slightly so that Sariel could see his profile. His eyes were soft when he looked at Eros, soft and appreciative.

It jolted her back to reality and Sariel fled noiselessly, unable to erase that look from her mind. It was a small blessing that neither of them saw, but they were likely too involved with each other. Something savage was clawing into her chest. It took her three tries to open her door and get back into her room, where she leaned back against the door and slid to the floor. Arms clasped tightly around her legs, she rested her forehead on her knees and tried not to rock herself in her wretchedness.

_Eros_, a mocking voice whispered in her mind. _She came from nowhere, to steal him while my back was turned…_ Sariel knew the full force of bitter envy then and forced herself to face the facts. _While my back was turned? No, Eros stole nothing that belonged to me in the first place. What could it possibly matter if he is with her? _

Sariel could not fool herself on this last point, however. It mattered. It mattered too much. She had fallen for him foolishly and she had not yet learned how to pick herself up and find her balance again. Had she misread him so completely? Just before the war, when they were saying goodbye that night, she had even thought…

But clearly it had not meant much, or enough. It mattered to her, but it should not have. She had walked far on a road that no one else would have taken and it was too late to change herself now. Nelladel's tearstained face haunted her. The path of the assassin, even if she had tried to renounce it, was one she had to ultimately walk alone. As Belderon had always taught her...

* * *

It was Eros who tried again, after she had invited Sariel to practice archery together. Though Sariel would gladly have declined, some small part of her would not let her do so. It was too much like succumbing to jealousy, given that that was the only reason she had to reject Eros' overture. She did not want to turn into someone who would end a friendship because the friend had something that she wanted herself.

Even so, the practice had the effect of leaving Sariel feeling even more resentful after it was over. Eros had always been an excellent archer, but with Sariel's arm just healing, she was more or less reduced to watching as Eros shot arrow after arrow perfectly into the center of the ever increasingly distant targets. They walked together to the targets after Eros was done and Sariel took some small pleasure in drawing the arrows back out, not as careful as she usually was to avoid damage.

When Eros tried to bring up the one subject that Sariel could not bear to even think about, it was the last straw. She realized that all day, Eros had probably been waiting for this moment. While Sariel had been concerned about keeping their friendship pure, Eros had arranged this practice to have a chance to talk to her.

"Sariel, can I ask you something?" Without waiting for a reply, Eros continued. "Remember that night, when you gave me something from Legolas?"

It was as if everything became strange around her. The grass beneath her feet was too green and it rippled oddly, though when Sariel blinked and looked again, it was not moving at all. The arrows she was holding seemed to weigh too much and her arm started to ache. Since Sariel had not wanted to hear it from Legolas, it seemed as though he had had no compunction in asking Eros to tell her.

"I will see you later," Sariel said abruptly, and shoved the arrows at Eros, almost dropping them. A startled noise escaped Eros as one of the sharp arrowheads bit into her arm, but she had no choice but to take them.

Ignoring what that the other Elf said, Sariel left at a run, eyes stinging from tears of frustration. She felt like she was going to explode, otherwise. In anger, in sheer disappointment, maybe in grief—it was overwhelming. She heard Eros call out after her several times, but she was beyond caring and Eros had the sense not to try to follow.

* * *

It was all too easy to find him when she wanted to see him. Less than a day ago, she had ordered him out of her room and yet now, ironically she looked for him in his. It was in the first place she went, and he was there. He was surprised to see her, which only spurred her anger.

"How could you send her of all people?" she demanded. Seeing how angry she was, Legolas opened the door wider and gestured for her to enter.

"Sariel, if you want to talk _now_, you had better come in." Already there was at least one person who had noticed Sariel's stormy passage down the hall, especially as she was clearly headed toward his room.

When she continued to stand silently and still in the doorway, fighting tears of incoherent rage, Legolas grabbed her arm and forcibly led her inside his room. He was none too happy with her either and his words were barbed when he spoke. "I thought you did not want to hear anything, Sariel. And yet here you are."

Even more provoked by his tone, she roughly broke free of his grip, not caring that his fingers had dug into her arm hard enough to leave bruises. "How could you, Legolas? Even if you respect me so little, how could you do that to her?"

"'Do that to her?'" He gave her a dark look. "What are you talking about?"

At that, she had to laugh, and it was bitter. "What were you going to tell me, Legolas? That it is Eros you have chosen? I already know and you made sure of that! It was tactless of you, really, to make me the messenger from you to Eros. But for you to then ask her to speak to me—"

"I did ask her," he interrupted, "but only because you refused to listen to anything I would say. I did not choose anyone. Sariel—"

"I hate you," she told him, eyes prickling with tears. It slipped out surprisingly easily. Heat burned across her face and she closed her eyes, angrily wiping away the few tears that rolled down her cheeks. When she opened them again, the expression on his face was too raw for her to look at and she dropped her gaze.

"You have misunderstood everything." As if in conscious attempt to match her own level voice, he sounded remote, implacable. She could hardly look at him, let alone meet the stormy blue of his eyes, but when she did look up, the cold arrogance of his face gave away nothing but his fury.

"You made things clear enough when you gave Eros the ring, and had me present it to her." The hurt twisted like a knife inside of her and she wanted only to lash out, to make him feel the same way. She had been suppressing every word for so long. "Why, Legolas? You used me like I was a piece on your chessboard. You pretended with me as if I actually belonged with you, or is it that you have no heart, only affections easily swayed—or are you simply faithless to all your lovers?"

She could see that she was destroying his composure with every word and she was glad. Even if it felt like she was ripping herself apart, she took satisfaction at how he looked nearly as emotional as her, now. He moved a few steps closer to her, unknowingly pressing his advantage over her in height. "You never trusted me, did you, Sariel? You must have doubted me all along, because you just assumed the worst of me. You could have asked me, you could have asked Eros—"

"Yes, I could have asked Eros!" The laughter burst out of her like sobs. "Eros never even knew about me, did she?" She took a deep breath. If she had been consumed by hate before, now she only felt numb, empty. "The advice of one assassin, for however much that is worth: stick to one at a time, _my __prince_."

She said it as sweetly as poison and then watched as her words took effect like poison. He turned white and for a moment, she could feel that he hated her too.

"I have notbeen as faithless as _you_!" He had lost all that careful self-control, she saw through tear-blurred eyes. The full force of his anger crashing down on her was almost enough to make her feel again. "Never for a moment have I…" His throat spasmed, choking off the rest.

With cruel effort, he forced his voice calm and cool again, though later all she would remember was how broken he sounded. "I do not need to explain myself to you. Clearly, my actions are none of your concern. I will tell you this only because perhaps now you may allow yourself to hear it. I gave the ring to Eros with my blessings because I was returning it. I knew that once she saw it and who had given it to her, she would understand that I could not pledge myself to her, as my heart was already taken by another." He said the last very harshly, as if it had been some kind of torment.

"I did not mean for you to be involved, but I believed you would understand. I thought it would be kinder for her, to know that there was a reason. It was not that I did not love her enough, but rather that I could not love her as she wanted."

For a moment, she was speechless. All the feeling suddenly flooded back into her body in a rush so that she sank to the floor in a crouch, trying to make sense of it all. There was the sudden, horrifying realization that she had been so completely wrong. From the beginning, it had never occurred to her that she might be mistaken. She thought again of that night, the round shape of the ring digging into her palm, Eros' tear-streaked face. Had envy colored her perceptions to the point that she had been blind?

He was right. She had never trusted his feelings for her, even after he had held her through the night of their goodbyes before the war, the closest to each other they had allowed themselves to be. She did not understand the connection between them, so she looked for ways to deny it, ways to break it.

Numbly, she rose and walked out of his room, neither of them able to look at each other. The heavy wooden door slammed behind her with a definitive, resounding _thud_.

* * *

**A/N: Please review!**

_Finalized September 2010_


	24. Twilight Questions

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas **

ElveNDestiNy

**Notes**: Feel free to skip this long rant. I'm well aware that in Tolkien canon, rape equals death, and that's a pretty much instantaneous, on the spot rejection of life. On one hand, you can say that because Elves are such spiritual beings, this is as reasonable as dying of a broken heart, and both are noble and romantic ideas—or ideals. Tolkien's Elves also never commit rape or adultery (because they can, just by looking, detect any lie about whether the other party is wed or unwed) and so on. On the other hand, given what you've read of BRR thus far, you also know that the noble and romantic ideas pretty much fail in this story.

Also, if you've read my previous author's notes (especially the long one in Chapter 15), you probably can guess my feelings on this subject. Personally, the whole "if you are raped, you will die" line of thought _really ticks me off_, Elves or otherwise. Maybe because, oh, there are millions of rape survivors in the world _right now_ (as well as survivors of many other traumas), and I think it's incredibly stupid of Tolkien to imply, even obliquely, that life is automatically not worth living if you've been raped.

Yes, I know, Tolkien's Elves are Tolkien's creation and he can do whatever he wants with them. Plus, mortal women his books get raped all the time and seem to be okay, but then of course, humans don't have an afterlife the way Elves do. Maybe the way I've characterized Elves here makes them too human. Then again, I don't particularly care, if it gives them the human resilience and vitality to struggle on and reach for happiness despite whatever horrific experiences they have endured. That's more admirable in my opinion, anyway, than starting off with a more or less infallible race and adding in death as a failsafe measure. Needless to say, Sariel would have never survived in the first place in Tolkien's Middle-Earth; she would have given up on life to begin with rather than kill anyone else (Lessena, if you prefer, is a more traditional Tolkien Elf), but as you know, it's never that black and white in _my_ world.

**Chapter 24: Twilight Questions**

Though he had left his own rooms shortly after the confrontation with Sariel, Legolas found himself returning before long, seeking comfort in a familiar sanctuary. He often found the place stifling, but at least it was somewhere away from curious and prying eyes. He had no wish to talk to anyone and it did no good to wander the halls. The smoothed stone walls around him only served to remind him that he was caged in, unable to enjoy the basic freedoms that most Elves had, simply because of his position. Even Arwen had found her own path to walk, though it would cost her the promise of eternity. It was not that he truly wished to be free of his responsibilities, but he still wanted to able to choose.

As it was, he had been away from Eryn Lasgalen too long already. Thranduil had taken his return as a sign that his wanderlust had finally eased and even his mother looked at him with cautiously hopeful eyes. Though Legolas could not see himself replacing his father the king anytime in the future, there were still duties his parents and his people expected of him as their prince.

In fact, even after he and Sariel had parted with angry hearts and angry words, he had gone to talk to a few of the families of those who had died during the war. At least it had forced him to suppress his own roiling emotions out of respect for theirs. There had been many—too many—under his command who had lost their loves. Some of them he had known personally and well, but others were mere acquaintances, or simply familiar-sounding names. The grief had hung too thickly in the air, especially when the few hushed mentions of Belderon's name only reminded him of Sariel.

Legolas allowed himself now to collapse into a chair at his table, realizing that his lightheadedness was both mental and physical. His wounds had begun hurting again earlier and now that pain had intensified, he sat stiffly, riding it out. He rose a few minutes later, more mindful of his injuries, and retrieved a folded paper from a box he kept for personal things. Rather than returning to the table, he sat on the edge of his bed and contemplated the letter. It was in Arwen's familiar hand and he once again read the graceful Sindarin letters carefully, as he had done nearly a dozen times since Aragorn and Arwen had left.

_Legolas, I wish you well, _the letter began simply enough. Slowly he traced his finger under the brief sentences. _Though I had hoped to stay in Eryn Lasgalen until you have truly recovered, my heart tells me that my continuing presence will do nothing for you that has not already been done. The people of Gondor are waiting for their king. Aragorn must return and he will need me by his side. I know you will understand, so I will be waiting for news from you. Please write often to me, dear friend._

_Remember our conversation nearly a year ago, under the golden mallorn-trees of Lórien? We could not have imagined then all that has happened since. I asked if you thought love was possible for you, or if you would always remain the distant prince. You wondered if you would ever find someone that you could love as I love Aragorn. It seemed like an exercise in thought and imagination then, but so much has changed._

_You have found her, Legolas. I hope you will not deny yourself the kind of happiness that even I only now am beginning to truly understand. _

_Sweet water and light laughter until next we meet. _

She had ended it with an elegantly twisting decoration followed by her name. But it was the few words of advice that she had written below her signature that caused his hand to falter in tracing the Elvish script and that made him close his eyes half in denial, half in acceptance.

_What ever happens, do not let go_.

He had never been so happy or so miserable as when he was around her. Never agonized so much over how much another person meant to him, or missed anyone so fiercely. She had turned his life upside-down from the very first moment that they had met—surely it was some kind of destiny that brought them together.

Even so, part of him still stubbornly resisted any acknowledgement of it. There were too many complications in his life already. It was the past year that had taught him that this was not something he could ignore with the foolish hope—or was it fear?—that it would fade. They had both survived, when it could have easily been otherwise. He had to try, even if neither of them knew exactly what they were taking on.

After all, the whole wretched affair over Eros had driven home at least one thing: Sariel would not understand. It was not her fault, but anyone else would have known what he had tried to do with Eros and the ring. Eros herself had known all along what the gesture had meant, and had even tried to warn him that Sariel, new to all kinds of relationships with others, would not understand these subtle dynamics.

From what Sariel had said, he knew that Eros most likely had approached Sariel with kind intentions, trying to stave off the exact kind of misunderstanding that had led to their argument. He should have seen it coming, because anyone else would have understood—anyone else from the court, that was. But Sariel was not from this court, or indeed, any other. She had grown up outside any structure of Elven society.

However loose the rule of monarchy was in Eryn Lasgalen, especially when compared to the formal rigidity of the kingdoms of men such as Rohan and Gondor, the court in Eryn Lasgalen was still undeniably a court. He could not treat Sariel like Eros, now that they were here. He could not expect her to simply know the nuances that it took others a lifetime to learn.

Folding the letter carefully again, fingers brushing the cracked wax seal, Legolas let out a quiet sigh. He should not have let himself been provoked, once he had realized the direction her suspicions had taken her. Still, even now, he felt a thread of anger at the thought that she had trusted him so little, to so easily jump to such false conclusions. He could perfectly recall the quiet defeat in her voice when she had told him that she hated him. He could still hear her sweetly calling him her prince, purposefully trying to anger him with the title, though she had no idea that the reason he hated hearing it from her so much was that very words built walls between them.

Somehow he felt that if he could not hold her now, he would forever lose her. Perhaps she would go to Lianderthral—just the thought of it made him clench his jaw too hard—but whatever it was that she chose, she would not be by his side, where he wanted her to be.

The current impasse between them was intolerable and he already knew that he had to see her again, had to talk to her. It had been a stupid, though serious, misunderstanding, and it was as much his fault as hers. He had only made it worse when he had lost his temper. They had done their best to hurt each other and had succeeded far beyond what either of them had expected. Arwen's admonition echoed in his mind, and both his conscience and his heart would not let him forget it.

The walk to the chambers that had been given to her did not take long. The difficulty was that once he was standing before the closed door, he could not bring himself to knock. Minutes ticked by as their argument played itself out again in his head at least twice over. Repetition did not soften the blows.

When he finally raised his hand to the smooth wood, the sound was brisk, giving away no hint of his feelings. That was good—it sounded calm, though he was anything but. It took another full minute before Legolas realized that there would be no answer. Either she had left or she was refusing to answer the door.

He could not tell if the feeling that filled him was relief or disappointment. Finding her somehow would be the easiest part, though. Arwen had left, so Sariel could not have possibly sought out her near cousin, though Vanidar's room was further down the hall. There was also Lianderthral, who seemed so close to her these days that they were not often seen apart.

Legolas found his feet already leading him down the hall, even as he was hoping against hope that Sariel had indeed simply stayed in her room. But if Sariel had truly gone to seek the other Elf's company, he could not let this deter him. The only thing that could resolve this was speaking to her directly and he was willing to lock away any feelings of pride or hurt as long as he could have her hear him out.

Despite his resolution, the soft sound of distress coming from within Lianderthral's room had his stomach knotting in anxiety. The door was slightly ajar and it was Sariel's voice that he heard, though it was thick and distorted with tears. At Legolas's forceful knock, the door swung open further.

Through the narrow gap, he saw Sariel crying quietly into Lianderthral's arms, the blond Elf murmuring something no doubt comforting to her, even as he threaded his fingers distractedly through the tangled darkness of her hair. In between jagged breaths, she sobbed something against Lianderthral's shoulder, her voice unsteady—but still clear enough for Elven hearing from a dozen paces away.

"Lianderthral… we hurt each other too much," she choked out. "Just keep him away from me." It was her tone as much as the words that stopped Legolas short when he would have rushed to her.

"You do not mean that," Lianderthral was saying back, but she was not listening, for she was still speaking, the simple phrases tumbling out in heavy hopelessness.

"Please, I cannot do this any longer. Just keep him away from me," she repeated. Her hands clenched in agitation, crumpling Lianderthral's shirt as she clung to him like a child, knuckles white with pressure, face pressed hard against his chest. "I do not want to see him again."

It was this last confession that convinced him. She had not seen him there; her back was towards him. Too late, Lianderthral looked up, his stunned emerald green eyes on Legolas.

* * *

The door slammed shut and Lianderthral felt Sariel's involuntary jerk of alarm at the violence of the sound. She raised her head and turned around, seeing nothing but the closed door. Then her aghast blue eyes were suddenly locking with Lianderthral's gaze. He was ill-prepared to answer the question in them, but she saw her suspicion confirmed in his expression even before he said anything.

"Go seek him out and apologize," he advised, before she could react. He shook his head when she parted her lips to protest, his hand clenching around her forearm as he tried to stave off her distress. "He will listen."

Sariel gave a frustrated shake of her head in denial, clearly fighting to control herself. "Not anymore."

"Sariel, he came here because he wanted to talk," Lianderthral reasoned. "He caught you at a bad moment and my presence does not help, but he must know that you did not mean what you said so unthinkingly."

"But what I said was _true_!" Self-disgust had replaced self-pity and Sariel sat up straight, more angry than tearful. "Maybe this is actually right. It is better this way. You should keep him away from me. Or I should keep myself away from him."

"No," he said as gently as he could. "Sariel, it is obvious he cares very much for you." Had Sariel been less agitated, she would have realized that Lianderthral had said this with some difficulty.

As it was, Lianderthral swallowed any bitter words that threatened to pour out of him, wondering how much he could push himself. The knowledge of his own fate still gave him no power to change it. It was no one's fault that things had happened the way they did, but he wished he had not glimpse the genuine hurt in the Elven prince's unguarded expression and known himself to be part of the cause.

"Go after him, Sariel. Make things right between the two of you." He had dropped his gaze to the floor when he said that, but as he looked up again he realized that Sariel was looking at him with an intent expression. Quickly he composed himself, unwilling to have his countenance betray his thoughts. The last thing she needed was to feel guilty for coming to him, and it was precisely because she would, if she knew what he was feeling, that he loved her.

"Lianderthral?" Sariel asked uncertainly after a moment. She was still staring at him with that strange intensity, and he wondered what she saw. Companion, friend, teacher? He wondered if she had detected false notes in his words, his selfish reluctance to let her go. It had always been a gift of his, to understand others and to see into their hearts. He had never considered it a curse until he had looked into her heart and realized from the very start that she loved another.

"Do you still think the sacrifice was in vain, Sariel?" he murmured.

Bewildered, she tilted her head as she looked at him, for all the world looking like an inquisitive bird. The words evoked some memory, but it slipped away before she could recall it fully. It was a story he had told her, not long after they had first met. "The…nightingale, Lianderthral?" she asked in confusion.

"Yes, the nightingale who gave his life for the sake of a poor student's love," he replied, his mind spinning with other thoughts as well. It was so tempting to stay out of it, to let them blunder along and never make that love into fact. Too tempting. So Lianderthral forced himself to do this, because whatever he felt toward Sariel himself, he wanted one thing above all else in the end, and that was her happiness.

It did not make it any less bitter a knowledge that she would find happiness with Legolas, not with him. That his own heartaches were irresolvable.

He could see that she remembered it now but did not understand why he brought it up now, unless it was meant to be a distraction. "The nightingale impaled himself on a rose thorn so that the student might have a rose to offer his love," she said hesitantly.

"But the girl still rejected the student," Lianderthral finished for her.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I had meant to ask, but I never did. Why did you think the sacrifice was meaningful?"

He reached up to cup her cheek in his hand, his thumb lightly grazing over the swollen bruise that Nelladel's hand had left. "The truth is, one of these days, Sariel, you will no longer need to ask me why." Letting his hand drop away, he looked at the soft hollow of her throat rather than in her eyes. "If you cannot bring yourself to have faith in him, then at least please trust me, Sariel. Go find Legolas."

He knew the moment when her scrutiny of him was finally over. Lianderthral heard her quiet footsteps and the click as the door opened, felt the cool breeze of air as the door closed. He was left standing alone in the room.

Alone again. As he had always been, ever since he had realized that there were things he could do through his kinship with the elements—special things, dangerous things. He had grown apart from all those that should have been nearest and dearest to him, like his family, his friends.

This had been a fear of his, once, a long time ago. Lianderthral had seen first-hand how his master Numinar had driven those around him away, for fear that he might hurt them. Thanks to his teacher, Lianderthral had no such fears about poor control. Yet the end result had the same, at least until the day the siren call of magic had led him to find an injured assassin who had fallen off her horse during a storm.

No sound could be heard if an Elf chanced to stop outside the room, but inside his mind and inside his heart, Lianderthral let the raindrops fall, a gentle shower rather than a thunderstorm. Inside of himself, he let go, knowing that he would always be alone now that he had sent the one person like him, the one who might have understood, away and into the arms of her true lover.

* * *

She made her way toward Legolas's room in a daze, her thoughts were filled with Lianderthral and what she had glimpsed for a few brief moments. He was always a master at hiding his emotions. He had let slip something, this time, or perhaps his careful mask had cracked, because in his eyes she had seen a degree of love that had warmed her, even as it had frightened her. And Sariel was sorry for it, sorry that she could not control her heart, sorry that because of this, he could only be hurt by her, no matter how good her intentions.

The corridors and turns she traversed were hauntingly familiar, the thoughts even more so. Pushing away her darker feelings, Sariel tried to focus on her task, resolving to do things a little at a time. When she saw him, then she would think of what to say. But was it really wise to try to talk to Legolas now? She had not seen him at all, but with a sinking heart, Sariel could imagine perfectly what his reaction might have been. Anger, perhaps, or more likely shock. He would have that barely concealed look of betrayal that made her want to desperately reach out to touch him, just to prevent him from leaving. Or had he looked at her with cold disregard, as he had when he had found her with Lianderthral just after they had buried Lessena together?

Biting her lip until it bled, Sariel hurried through the main halls, ignoring the curious looks that she was getting from some of those around her. Legolas valued his privacy, and his rooms had been built or given to him accordingly. It was at the end of a long hallway, not much in the way of passages that most people used to pass through the palace. It was sobering to realize that Legolas had likely taken the same route to her room earlier, for he was the one who had shown her the fastest way to pass through the halls.

He had likely also stood before her door with the same gut-wrenching feeling of insecurity. She could imagine him hesitated as she was hesitating now, swallowing down all thoughts of pride before knocking. She had been the one who had been in the wrong, but he had been ready to talk when she was busy indulging in self-pity. If they had just faced each other honestly from the start…

She knocked, feeling the minutes trickle past like hours. When there was no response, she settled down to wait, knowing that once his anger cooled, she would eventually meet him. Either he would come out of the room or he would return to it—she would be patient. It was the least she could do.

* * *

Sitting next to his door with her back against the wall, Sariel found that it was easy to lose track of time. She did not even notice how many hours had passed until Gimli came. They were equally surprised to see each other. The Dwarf peered into her shadowed face and for once, he was the one above eye level for her.

"Sariel? What are you doing here?"

"I need to speak to him," she told the Dwarf. It seemed like too much of an effort to explain the whole thing, so Sariel spread her hands in a indifferent gesture. In any case, it was clear that she was waiting.

Gimli looked her over with a critical eye and Sariel realized how she must look to him. The hallway was lighted by rather dim, flickering torches, and she was dressed in dark clothing, rendering her almost invisible when she was pressed against the wall as she was. Her hair was a mess, the neat braids that had wrapped around her head in a coronet having come apart completely and subsequently tangled. From the throbbing of her cheek, she could tell that the bruise from Nelladel's hand was likely an altogether unlovely shade of purple.

"Is he inside?" Gimli asked. When Sariel shrugged uncertainly, he expressed his opinion of that by making a noise that was more or less a _hrrumph_! She watched as Legolas's most unusual friend knocked briskly, to no reply. Since Sariel was so uncommunicative, Gimli gave up after a few more questions and was soon on his way.

With him gone, Sariel fell into a light sleep until the presence of a stranger forced her awake. This next visitor was a seemingly impossibly tall, hooded shadow. Cloaked in dark green, Sariel could not at first tell if the Elf was male or female until a soft, low exclamation came from the figure. Delicate hands with long fingers drew back the hood to reveal a pretty face with almond shaped eyes. She seemed vaguely familiar, as if Lianderthral had pointed her out to Sariel or perhaps even introduced them to each other. As Sariel struggled to recall a name or title, the stranger gave her a slightly condescending look.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. "Are you not the…" Here she paused, as if unwilling to sully her pretty mouth by actually naming her existence.

"Waiting," Sariel answered briefly. It was clear by now, after all, that Legolas simply did not want to see her. He was keeping away, just as she had wanted. Although she was not truly tired, she somehow felt lethargic. Talking seemed like a waste of effort, especially when it involved conversing with someone like this.

"Prince Legolas is not here?"

"No." With Sariel's firm reply, the Elf turned and left, hardly sparing her another look. Little did Sariel know that the rumor would soon spread among all the Elves that she, Sariel-the-assassin, was sitting in the prince's doorway waiting for him like a fool.

* * *

He had known all along that she was outside his door. That was why he had escaped from his rooms through the windows. It was a special aspect of his room, one few others knew. Long ago when he was but a child, his parents had discovered that he simply could not and would not abide in the cavernous rooms without any daylight. Legolas was an Elf who thrived on air and light, who was most comfortable deep in untamed woods. He was not a child who belonged in stone caves, so his rooms, unlike others, were positioned so that he had windows. It was one of the reasons why they were so far from the main halls of the palace.

He returned a full three days later. He had another place at which he could sleep and spend nights—in fact, he had several such places, legacies of a life exploring the forest. In earlier years, he had traveled quite a bit, eager to get away from Mirkwood and all that it represented to him. After all, as with almost all Elves, he was readily able to find whatever sheltered spot he favored and spend a couple of nights there.

Two nights had indeed been what he had needed to sort out his thoughts and emotions in the quiet peace of a hidden glade, unbothered by others. It was one of his favorite places in the forest and it had provided him much needed respite from his recent troubles. Certainly he knew that the king and queen would not be surprised if he did not return immediately. While his other friends might be a little worried, they knew that he could take care of himself and more.

It was with genuine surprise that Legolas realized his temporary disappearance had actually caused quite a bit of disturbance in the palace. He could not fathom why it would be of such note, but clearly, something was different this time. Before he had even returned to his room, Gimli appeared almost out of nowhere to intercept him at one of the junctions of the halls.

"Where have you been?" the Dwarf growled without even a greeting. Legolas was taken aback.

"I needed some time for myself," he said cautiously, not wanting to explain further unless necessary. "Is something wrong?"

Gimli snorted. "You could say that. Did you really need three days, Legolas? Everyone is talking about it already. What you need to do is go to your room as soon as possible, before they realize you are back."

"Who is talking? What are they talking about?" Legolas started to feel a little worried as he took in Gimli's scowl and furiously knitted brows. "My absence?"

"No, you fool." The Dwarf's expression grew even darker. "Sariel has been sitting outside of your chambers for the last three days. I have tried to talk to her, but she has only left once or twice—of course, no one actually knows since no one was mad enough to keep watch!"

"What? Why would she—?" Legolas cut himself off with a muttered curse. Why would she do something so extreme? To apologize, of course. Lianderthral must have told her that he had seen and heard everything.

No longer paying any attention to Gimli, he hurried down the hall to toward the direction of his chambers. Keeping in mind what the Dwarf had said, he chose to take some of the less often used passageways, even though it was a more circuitous route.

Even though Gimli had just described it all for him, he still had not quite believed it until now, he saw it with his own eyes. Legolas stopped in front of his door now, finding with unpleasant shock that Sariel was sitting there at the end of the hall, asleep. Had she really been here all this time, waiting for him to return? The thought that she might have actually done so—might have actually been so desperate or determined to prove her remorse to him—caused his heart to lurch painfully, and yet he could not suppress the accompanying surge of elation at the sign that she cared so much.

She was leaning against the wall but her head was awkwardly tilted back against it in a position that would surely leave her stiff and sore when she woke. Someone had thoughtfully arranged a cloak over her, though the red hue of it only made her more conspicuous.

He considered waking her up, but he hesitated. It would be better to let her rest if she had fallen asleep, and he needed some time to gather his thoughts anyway. All the calm he had developed over the past three days had completely fled in a moment, just at the sight of her. Legolas knelt to take her into his arms when a sudden sharp sound from her made him start away, afraid she was about to attack. However, her body language was fearful rather than hostile.

"…No…no, please…no! I—" her tone suddenly changed, caught between terror and determination.

Legolas gazed down at her in alarm, knowing that she had to be caught in a nightmare, perhaps one of many that plagued her sleep.

Her head shifted from side to side restlessly as if she sought to evade hands that were touching her face. "Your vow…You said you would not hurt any of them, if I gave myself to you…"

Horrified and sick, Legolas found that he could not avert his eyes from her sleeping face as an expression of pain crossed her features. Her hands clenched into fists and her forehead shone with sweat. "Master…please. I am afraid…" It was no more than a whisper.

The heart-stopping scream that suddenly followed left Legolas completely cold with horror, before a wave of hot, helpless anger swept over him. His pulse sped in shared terror as tears squeezed out of Sariel's closed eyes.

He could imagine the other Elves witnessing this private torment of hers with judging eyes, a more complete invasion of her privacy than they imagined. Yes, they _would_ talk about it among themselves, if only in whispers; for all their wisdom, the race of Elves were not be perfect, and like all other beings, their near-state of flawlessness only encouraged a hidden arrogance that they turned on others in the form of censure. Legolas could already see the judgment and pity in their eyes, though none of them, _none_, had the right to judge or pity her.

He was afraid to touch her, unsure of what horrors or memories his touch would evoke for her. Still, he reached out finally, illogically hoping that she would recognize that it was him. As gently as he could, he shifted her until his arms supported her under her knees and arms. She was heavier than she looked yet Legolas felt as if she were still lighter than what she should be. He easily carried his precious burden through the door that she had been hoping would open. Crossing the room in which they had argued days ago, he brought her into his bedroom. He realized with a flash of surprise that she had never been in the room before, since he had recuperated from his injuries in another room after the war. With a few swift strides, he reached his bed and laid her down, covering her with sheets. She had quieted in his arms, though he had feared every moment that she would reject his touch.

Hardly knowing what to think or do, Legolas sat near her bed and reread Arwen's letter, half-listening to the steady, soft sound of her breathing, and very aware of his own heartbeat sounding so loud in comparison. Guilt and worry ate at him. How long had she had these nightmares? Had she been so fragile all through the war, with no one but her new companions to confide in?

The few Elves in history whose bodies had been violated as Sariel's had almost never survived. It was usually not because of physical injuries, but rather, because the will to live left them in face of such experiences. But Sariel had never been like any of the Elves that Legolas knew, and she had never truly grown up within the Elven culture. She had showed few signs of yielding to despair…

But even as he tried to reassure himself, Legolas remembered something from what seemed like eons ago, before they had come to Mirkwood and before the war. She had wanted to die during the journey here, in those long days when she had been caught in the grip of delirium. Yet that was then and this was now, nearly half a year later; had she been reliving it every day, all along? She had not shown or said anything to him, but then, there had not been any opportunities for her to do so. Most likely he would also be the last person she would want to speak to on such subjects…

On and on Legolas' thoughts circled, a jumble of memories from all his time with Sariel. He was distracted, too, by his recently acquired knowledge of how warm and _alive_ she had been in his arms. How vulnerable she had looked, sleeping in his doorway, her cheek still discolored. He wanted to hold her to him while she slept, to assure himself that she was all right.

His feelings were too strong to let him rest and he contented himself with glancing at her from time to time, as if to reassure himself that she was still there. It was still day outside and the golden sunlight streamed in as a narrow band through the window, the glow illuminating her skin to a pale radiance. For a moment, he did not even see her beauty, almost as if she ceased to be beautiful, though he knew it was there for him to notice if he concentrated. But to him, now, she simply looked as she was, as _Sariel_—just as if he had looked in the mirror and had recognized himself.

She was a part of him, he thought wonderingly, and he had not even noticed when that change had happened. Why did he still try to deny it?

_Because you are not sure if she considers you a part of her,_ he answered himself in his mind. _Even after three days, you are still a little angry, and why? Because you know, without a doubt, that Lianderthral is a part of her, and he claims a part you can never even come close to touching. _

* * *

She woke up in unfamiliar surroundings, but the ache of her muscles prevented any thought of getting up immediately unless necessary. The sheets beneath her were white and unadorned by any markings, but they felt fine and soft underneath her cheek. There was a scent that reminded her of the forest trees and yet there was also something faint like the fragrance of almonds, or something else that she could not quite place. Sariel found herself inhaling deeply, trying to identify that strange aroma, almost like musk but so much lighter.

With a start, she realized that she had almost completely ignored her surroundings in her focus on the elusive scent. It was just after sunset evidently, as she could see the dusky sky outside from the windows in the circular room. Windows? She felt a touch of alarm when she felt crisp night air blow in. As far as she knew, no rooms in Thranduil's palace had windows. Surely they were all underground.

There was a little candle burning on the table but the rest of the room was in shadow and she could not completely make out the shapes. It had a strangely calming effect on her since she was more comfortable with night and its mystery than with day.

The most impressive and most visible features of the room were the windows. They were rectangular, longer that she was tall and nearly two feet wide. They started at about waist height, which drew the eye up to the high ceiling above. Sitting up, she could see from the bed that the stars were beginning to appear, little pinpricks of light on a darkening tapestry.

_Ithildin would appreciate them_, she thought, remembering the odd conversation she had once had with her former comrade-in-arms. Along with that memory came another, however—that of Lianderthral telling her that if she truly wished to know the relationship between Eros and Legolas, she could ask Ithildin. In the end, she had never asked, too afraid of the response. If she had just spoken to Ithildin then, none of this would have happened, including her wait…

She sat up straight and scrambled out of the bed when she recalled exactly what she had been doing before she had succumbed to exhaustion and pure boredom. She was nowhere near the door she had been guarding. She also felt strangely weightless—Sariel forgot everything else when she suddenly realized that she had been completely disarmed. Someone had even taken off her shoes.

The last time she had been so defenseless, she had been walking straight into Belderon's arms. Panic threatened to flood her veins with energy and Sariel scanned the room again, this time carefully. Her gaze latched onto a shadowy pile at the ledge of one of the windows. Crossing the room rapidly, she discovered to her great relief that the ledge held the various special weapons she usually concealed around her body.

A small sound behind her made her instantly wary and she spun around, dagger already in hand, assassin's reflexes not slowed in the least. The razor sharp blade pressed against the cheek of the very Elf she had waited so long to see. He was standing close to her and in her current predatory mentality, her mind processed the distance as being too close. Automatically her grip tightened on the dagger.

His fingers wrapped around her wrist and clenched hard, enough so that she gasped. The pressure on her wristbones flooded her with memories of when he had broken her wrist during that night in Lórien when she had tried to kill him. The circular room seemed suddenly too small for the two of them to share. Sariel realized suddenly and with chagrin that the place was his—she should have guessed, or known, from the start. The scent she had found so familiar…

She looked at him, at last relaxing enough to take away and sheath the blade just as he let go of her wrist. A thin line of blood marred his cheek from the kiss of the dagger. She stared, the vivid red absorbing her whole attention.

She had not meant to cut him. She was never so clumsy with a blade and the situation had been under her control—true, she had felt a flash of fear given how often she seemed to remember her former master. For a moment, she had almost believed it was Belderon, testing her as he had a thousand times before.

It was a slight mistake and the cut so shallow that there was hardly a full drop of blood, and yet it was a momentous thing to her. Disconcerted, she went so far as to reach out to touch the cut in disbelief and contrition. He flinched a little, not having expected any of this, and the blood smeared a little.

Sariel drew her hand back as if she had been burned. His cheek had been smooth and soft under her hand; the feeling lingered on her fingertips. They were still close enough to feel each other's warmth . She was short enough that with a level gaze, her eyes met his mouth. It was an exceedingly attractive mouth, currently compressed into a thin, unhappy line.

She no longer trusted herself to say the right thing. Legolas also did not seem to want to be the first to break the silence. The small candle burned down, wax pooling on the smooth wood table. Eventually the light flickered and went out, enveloping them both in shadows. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, and she could still see every detail even from the blue light. Neither made a move to find another candle.

He looked at her steadily, eyes bright and clear. Sariel looked away, unable to bear the emotions that shifted through his eyes so puzzlingly. The first thing he said was not something that she had expected.

"There was a time when I thought we were friends," he said coolly. His hand rose to his face and wiped away the blood that had newly welled from the shallow cut. Sariel watched the movement as a wolf would watch a deer, fascinated by the way the blood made a dark smear on his skin. "There was a time when you would have confided in me."

She turned towards the door as if to go, forgetting that she was the one who had sought him out. She had meant to apologize, but she was not prepared for this. She had even hoped, just a little, that he would understand from her actions, from the hours and days she had waited.

"Then, you would not have fled from me so."

The statement stopped her in her tracks. Sariel looked at him again, silently.

"Why were you sleeping outside my chambers?"

Ah, the fateful question. She cursed silently. What to say? How to explain the impulse that had driven her here? With all her heart she wished she did not have to answer, but she knew that would only delay the inevitable.

"Will you forgive me?" she asked instead.

"How can I?" he countered. Rather than rising to the challenge in his tone, she grew hesitant.

"I…" She did not want to look at him for fear of what she would see in his gaze. "I did not mean to say what I did. I was not thinking."

"That was obvious, considering you were…preoccupied." Some change in his tone conveyed the sarcasm. Inadvertently, Sariel remembered the feeling of Lianderthral holding her, the gentle warmth in his eyes that told her she was loved, no matter what. The memory made her shiver and her cheeks felt hot. She was thankful for the lack of light but knew that he could probably see her anyway.

"That was not what I meant," she whispered.

"I know exactly what you meant."

Sariel struggled to swallow down her anger. Belderon had taught her, long ago, that all kinds of anger had a basis in fear. Even knowing that, she had never been good with separating the two.

"Then you will not forgive me," she said quietly. Slowly gathering the tiny remnants of her pride, she nodded once in acceptance. "You are right not to do so. I was thinking only of myself."

Despite herself, her voice wavered in the end.

Unexpectedly, his eyes softened and he gazed at her with a hint of inner turmoil or perhaps confusion. "I can see and hear the lie in your words, Sariel. Yet when you said you did not want to see me again, you meant it then, too."

"We _do _hurt each other too much," she murmured, one hand protectively holding her other wrist. The same dagger, another mistake, her wrist. She could not be the only one thinking of that other night.

"Tell me the truth," he said in frustration. "You were not thinking only of yourself, any more than you were when you—"

She saw understanding dawn in his eyes, followed by a dark pain. He seemed arrested by some thought and made no effort to continue the words he had so abruptly cut off.

"Legolas?" She was startled enough to actually lay a hand on his arm.

His gaze was distant, lost in remembering what she had cried out in her dream only hours ago. She had accepted a contract with Belderon, an agreement based on the safety of her companions—the safety of everyone but herself.

"You are not afraid of being hurt," he told her, eyes searching hers for confirmation. His hand came up to cup the side of her face. ""No… You may be afraid, but you would never let that stop you. You wanted me to stay away because you believed you would be hurting me."

His expression was intense, the air between them seemingly edged with pain both old and newly discovered. His words silenced her but it did not matter since his arms encircled her then. She rested her forehead against his shoulder and closed her eyes, unable to resist the temptation that he was.

The misunderstanding about the ring seemed so trivial compared to the important things. She finally looked up at him again and there was so much warmth and concern in his eyes that she felt as though she could lose herself in their pure, crushed blue.

"How long have you been having the nightmares?" he asked, smoothing her hair behind her ear. She shivered at the sensation of his fingertips brushing against the pointed tip and it was almost enough to distract her, but not him. "Why did you never tell me?"

Though she would have expected similar questions to come in a confrontation, these begged only for answers. She understood that he felt helpless against the specter of her former master, so she answered honestly and with all her heart. "There were too many other things already, I think. The war, Aragorn, everything. Then I just tried to forget about it and sometimes I even succeeded, but…it still haunts me. You cannot know what it is like. You cannot even begin to understand," she said with a choked laugh.

He regarded her steadily. "I want to. Make me understand, Sariel, as much as I am able."

"Why?" she whispered, cheek pressed hard against his chest, where she could hear his heartbeat. It was an intimate sound, somehow as intimate as a kiss. She felt her chest rise and fall against his as she matched the pace of her breathing to his. "There is no beauty in it, Legolas, not even the beauty of broken things. Not even a shred of dignity or bravery or anything noble. There was just pain and terror, and I thought I would go mad, as if my spirit would be torn apart."

"But you survived," he reminded her. "You are here with me now. Your heart beats with mine, your breaths are mine."

She closed her eyes. "Sometimes I think it would have been better if I had not."

Her admission did not surprise him but she could feel his heart beat faster, even if he looked calm and in control. Pressed against him, she felt as if his emotions could somehow simply pass through him and into her. Yet being so close to Legolas, feeling her skin against his, eased longings she had not known she had.

"It is a hard thing, is it not," he said equally softly, "to understand why others would care for you, when you so hate yourself."

"How could I not," she asked, barely audibly. "How could I not, when every day I remember the feel of his hands on me, remember what I am and always will be."

She broke free of him and moved away restlessly, suddenly unable to bear the closeness that just a moment ago she had accepted and cherished. They had suddenly moved onto more dangerous matters than Belderon, but she was feeling reckless tonight. Some of the hard questions were hers to ask, after all.

"Do you believe your people would accept me?"

"You belong with the Elves, Sariel. They are your people as well."

She shrugged at his reply, arms tightly crossed against her chest. "Ask them, then. Ask them if they see an Elf before them, or a murderer, a cold-blooded killer, an _assassin_. I am all of these things, no matter how much you or I try to deny it. I am no Elf, Legolas, not as they would want. They would rather that I left and never return."

"It does not matter," he said. Sariel resented him for it a little, that he was so much in denial or so desperate to make such a naïve statement.

"It changes everything, Legolas." She silently added the words she tried to hold back, though the bruise on her cheek was a visible enough reminder. _You do not want to admit it, but we both know it is true._

"Why must you always draw away, Sariel?" he fought back. "You know what you mean to me."

"Do I?"

A frustrated laugh escaped him. "You deny it only to resist. But why keep on running from what you want?"

She turned away from him, needing to hold onto reason, even against the chaos of his feelings and hers. "Legolas, it will only hurt both of us and maybe even others. That truth has not changed."

"Do you think that what you say to me now is not hurting me? Hurting you?" he flung at her back.

_What to say?_ She longed for an enemy she could confront and fight, dagger to dagger or sword to sword. These honed words were deadlier than her stiletto. She could hear him breathing shallowly and she wondered what she would see on his face now if she dared to turn around.

"I would give you everything I could, no matter how angry I am with you, Sariel."

"I cannot change what I am, what I _was_."

He did not reply. She turned around to leave, and he did not move away, making her brush against him. He spoke just as her shoulder grazed his upper arm.

"I never asked you to."

It made her stop and look at him. In the moonlight now his eyes were more silver than blue, as bright as the stars above them. She could not help asking one more question.

"Could you forgive me?"

This was why she had waited two nights and three days. Not whether he would, but if he could. Not whether he could forgive her for this night, or for what she had said about never seeing him again, but for her whole life, entangled with death—could _he_ forgive her past?

For answer he slanted his mouth over hers, drawing her to him again in an abrupt movement so that they were aligned together. The kiss was sweet and fierce, and he felt her response to his demand; she was hesitant at first and then as unrestrained as he was, eagerly accepting all that he had to offer. Sariel could feel him pressed hard against her all along her body, solid and alive. Neither of them had completely healed from the war, but that reminder of their mortality only made this sweeter. They broke apart long moments later and an aching tenderness filled her when she tilted her head upwards and saw that his eyes had darkened with desire.

Legolas watched her carefully, his touches still restrained despite the passion of their kiss. Her clear gaze seemed to pierce through him like a ray of light. He bent and brushed his lips on the curve of her neck, and the slight kiss was enough to make her shiver and catch her breath.

His answer when it came was a soft whisper in her ear. The slight unevenness in his husky voice betrayed him, but Sariel did not notice.

"Could you love me?"

Somehow, the shock of hearing the words destroyed the fragile indulgence of the moment and brought her back to the coldness of reality. Her lips parted as she darted a wild glance at him, stumbling back. For an instance, their eyes met and secrets were not possible between them, but the moment was over too quickly.

She fled, not looking back to see if he followed.

* * *

A/N: I apologize for the typos and errors I know are still lurking in these pages. If you spotted any, please point them out even though this is "finalized." **Please review! **

_Finalized September 2010_


	25. Stranger to Here

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas **

ElveNDestiNy

Dedication: To my reviewers, especially Pixisticks – you guys are the best!

Translation:

_Miluir__î__n_: combination of milui and rîn, 'kind queen'

_Caranfêr_: combination of caran and fêr, 'red beech-tree'

The accents on Miluirin and Caranfer are not in the text below because this site originally couldn't display the names properly when I left them in.

**

* * *

Chapter 25: Stranger to Here**

_

* * *

Could you love me?_ The question he had asked from the night before still echoed in her mind as Sariel rose the next morning, having hardly slept at all. He had asked it sincerely, as if he did not know the answer. But did she? Even now her heart was in turmoil, her feelings confused. She had not meant to leave him standing there alone in his room, and yet every instinct had urged her to flee. Perhaps the mere mention of love should not have called up such fear in her, but throughout the night, she had not been able to summon the courage to return. Still, she could run away from him, but she could not keep herself from thinking about him.

She had just barely finished dressing when three sharp knocks on her door provided a welcome distraction from her thoughts.

"Who is it?" Sariel did not recognize her visitor and she stood warily with the door only partially open, though she was aware that her actions could be considered rude. The stranger was dressed plainly, however, and Sariel guessed that she was simply a messenger or attendant. A quick exchange of words brought the news that she was to join the queen this morning, although it was phrased as a request rather than a summons.

"I will take you to her in a few minutes," the Elf informed her. "Perhaps it would be better if you changed to a more suitableattire for meeting the queen."

Her tone immediately set Sariel's nerves even more on edge. True, she was wearing worn traveling gear, but it was clean and, she thought, presentable enough for all but an unexpected visit with royalty. Did this Elf think that she had so much finery to wear, after kind of fighting she had been doing for the last year? Despite the several possible retorts that came to mind, Sariel merely thanked the Elf, not indicating even the least displeasure. She glimpsed some kind of satisfaction in the Elf's dark eyes at her polite response, though it was difficult to tell what the reaction meant.

With the Elf waiting outside, Sariel closed the door and leaned on it for a moment with a sigh, realizing that the attendant was right, in any case. She was meeting with the Queen of Mirkwood, and though that estimable lady had always seemed kind, it would not be surprising if she took offense when Sariel showed up in such clothes. The problem was, she had only one dress, the deep velvet blue that she had worn for her audience with the Lady Galadriel. Rummaging through her saddlebags, Sariel was able to find it, but the velvet had been ruined by the harsh weather it had suffered.

She had no real intention of wearing it anyway. It was Belderon's choice for her, and she would not wear anything from him again. The thought of having something of his next to her skin was intolerable.

Sariel changed into slightly better attire and pulled out her much-used green cloak, which at least matched the rest of her ensemble. She did not quite look like a lady—she imagined that would require much more effort, and a gown of some sort—but it would have to do. She told herself firmly that she did not care what these Elves thought of her, but it was still hard not to wonder whether she had been summoned to meet the queen of the kingdom, or Legolas' mother.

After all, her son's question from hours ago still echoed in Sariel's mind.

* * *

She was directed to a garden, or at least a part of the woodland that Sariel felt was a garden, because on three sides there were crumbling stone walls covered with a profusion of twining briars. Flowers of every size and shape and color bloomed haphazardly wherever they were wont to, intermingling and setting up realm in different parts of the enclosed area. Golden rays of sunlight filtered down through spaces between the leaves of the great trees towering above. The moss-covered stone and tumble of vines created the effect of a natural wilderness rather than a formal garden. At the same time, it was clearly a Elven place of relaxation and quiet solitude.

Sariel was guided toward the middle of the garden, though she paid less attention to the attendant than to her surroundings. She was glad to see there were no roses in the garden, save for the wild briar-roses that climbed one of the walls. The area was even larger than it first appeared, the greenery almost a maze. At last she was brought to a halt and left standing before a marble block, meant to eventually be her seat. Across, a few feet away, sat the lady she had been brought to meet.

Without a dress, Sariel did not want to attempt the embarrassment that would be a curtsey, so she bobbed in an awkward bow.

"No need for such formalities," the queen said with a reassurance that Sariel wanted to trust. "Please, take a seat."

As Sariel did so, she realized that despite having seen her around on a few occasions before, the queen was still nothing like she expected. On seeing her the very first time, Sariel had immediately realized why, in the year that she had been with Legolas, he had never once mentioned her—she was too close to his heart to speak of. Even now, with just the two of them, Sariel felt as though this lady shone like moonlight over the Elves of Eryn Lasgalen, a quiet, tender influence.

Though the queen had been kind, Sariel thought she might make her a formal greeting still, but could not find the right words. Looking down at her hands, Sariel sat quietly, seeking to calm herself. She heard laughter and tensed, but it was kind laughter, to dispel embarrassment rather than to cause it.

"You need not fear me." It was not her words but the melody in her voice that made Sariel lift her eyes from her clasped hands. The queen wore a grey dress, soft and light as clouds; her hands caressed the white petals of a camellia. She was crowned with a simple coronet that held her dark hair back from her face, and her eyes were a clear blue-grey. Although her oval face was smooth and showed no sign of age, the queen seemed both wise and accessible, and Sariel felt humbled before her grace.

"I am Miluirin," she said, gifting her name and doing it so casually that Sariel was not overawed by the deliberate omission of her title. "I have wanted to speak with you for a long time, but I know you were at my son's side for many days during his healing." Joy mingled with relief in her eyes at the memory of his close brush with death.

Sariel had come here vaguely expecting haughty arrogance, if not outright scorn; as such, she had prepared herself for a game of cutting words, a confrontation so subtle as to not seem to be a conflict at all. She was ill prepared for this welcoming lady before her and for how instantly she had been put at ease. To her dismay, she realized she _would_ care about what this lady thought of her, and in fact, she very much wanted Miluirin to like her.

"Why would you wish to meet me?" she asked, then flushed at her bluntness. Her clasped fingers turned white with pressure as she suddenly realized that the queen had surely heard of her three days' wait outside of Legolas' chambers. And had Legolas spoken of her at all to his mother? Surely he had, if only to explain how they had become so inextricably involved with each other's lives.

She was saved by the unexpected appearance of a royal attendant, along with another Elf. It was a lord that Sariel had seen before, though she had never been officially introduced to him. Legolas disliked this particular king's advisor for reasons he had not disclosed to her, but whatever the truth, she felt the Elf's stare bore into her now as if he knew all her thoughts.

The queen frowned slightly at the interruption, but her eyes remained calm. "Please wait here for a moment, Sariel. It seems I must speak with Lord Caranfer. I do not think this will take long." The lord offered the queen his arm and escorted her away.

If Sariel had been more herself, she might have wondered what they were speaking, and might have attempted to secretly listen. As it was, she was too bemused by Miluirin for the idea to even cross her mind. Using the respite wisely, Sariel did a quick reassessment of all that she knew about the lady. It amounted to almost nothing. Because none spoke of her much, Sariel had assumed that she was overshadowed by her husband. After meeting Miluirin personally, however, Sariel lost this conviction. But before she had much time to ponder, the queen appeared again, this time alone.

"I apologize for the interruption," she said, though Sariel thought it unlikely that a queen ever needed apologize for anything. "Many seek me out for my opinion," the queen explained, taking her seat once again.

"I am certain that you have much wisdom to share," Sariel ventured.

"Lord Caranfer is one of your most outspoken adversaries, you know," Miluirin told her. It seemed that she had decided to respond to Sariel's lack of courtly speech with an equal frankness. Still, it took a moment for Sariel to catch the meaning, but when she did she sat up straighter, inadvertently raising her chin, as if in response to a challenge.

"I do not wish to give offense, but I do not understand why you tell me this…"

"Call it a whim, if you will," Miluirin said lightly, though her eyes were assessing. "You remind me a little of my daughter Rhiannon."

Once again, Sariel found herself speechless.

"Furthermore, I care very much for my son's well-being, and what you do affects him greatly," the queen continued serenely. "You may deny it, but I believe this is true."

She rose and beckoned for Sariel to follow her out of the garden. Miluirin led her down on a long path that finally stopped at a door. Inside, evidently in one of the queen's private chambers, Miluirin pulled out a chair and motioned for Sariel to sit. Sariel did so quietly, still unable to think of an appropriate response to what Miluirin had said.

Meanwhile, the queen left the room and returned with a glistening heap of fabric in her arms. With a flourish, she held it up to show Sariel that it was a lovely gown.

"I made this myself for my daughter many years ago, but she never had the chance to wear it. It will fit you well, I can tell, and no doubt you are in need of a few pretty clothes, if only to silence careless tongues." Miluirin's soft smile took the sting out of her words and she began carefully wrapping the gown with protective fabric, making it ready for Sariel to take. The fine material had seemed black in the shadows, but on closer look, Sariel saw that it was actually a very dark green.

"Thank you, my queen," Sariel said hesitantly. She could not refuse the gift, but was it really appropriate for her to accept it? It had been meant for a beloved daughter.

"You may address me as Miluirin," the queen told her warmly. "After all, you do not address my son as your prince, do you?"

Still anxious about the expensive and unique gown, Sariel said the first thing that came to mind. "I did once, but he hated it."

She stopped abruptly, appalled with herself, but Miluirin was startled into a laugh.

"Yes, I imagine Legolas would react in such a way," she exclaimed. "Though under the right circumstances, I think he could still find those words sweet to his ears, coming from you."

After that, they did not return to the subject of either Legolas or Lord Caranfer. Much to Sariel's relief, Miluirin asked instead about her recent journeys. She had expected that she would be called on to give a personal account of her story, but it did not go as badly as she had thought it might. Miluirin empathized with Sariel and she did not seek to judge her actions; these two qualities of the queen made all the difference.

Despite Sariel's reticence on the subject, Legolas didplay a central part in the events that had happened over the past year. Though she was careful not to betray any emotion when she was talking of him, she had the feeling that Miluirin understood anyway. There was approval in the interest she showed to Sariel, and acceptance in the way she listened to what she had to say. Sariel even found herself telling the queen some of the personal incidents between Legolas and herself, the things which had driven her actions. No one else knew how her argument with Legolas had factored into her decision to leave Lórien immediately, directly against the wishes of Galadriel.

Sometime between the beginning and end of her story, Sariel fell into comfortable discussion with the queen, almost as if she were speaking to a dear friend like Arwen. A mysterious change had come over her, allowing her to become freely animated and lively in conversation. It was hope that was one of Miluirin's greatest gifts to give, and it was hope that she bestowed freely on Sariel, who had charmed without trying to charm, who loved without knowing how to accept love.

Hours later, after she had left the lady, Sariel marveled at what she now understood. Queen Miluirin was the treasure at the heart of the Elvenking's halls, a presence that people did not speak of only because it was so central, just as one did not speak of the heart. Somehow, Sariel had an ally where she had least expected to find one, in the most precious core of the royal court. It seemed that she was not completely unwelcome after all, in Eryn Lasgalen.

* * *

Once she was alone again, however, Sariel's thoughts wandered back to the troubling beginning of her conversation with the queen. That Sariel had enemies here, she did not doubt, but she had never imagined that they were protesting against her to the king and queen. She wanted to hear Lianderthral's opinion of it, but when he came, it was to tell her to come to dinner, for Vanidar would soon be returning home to Lothlórien.

"Must you leave so soon?" Sariel asked her oldest friend wistfully, after they had eaten. With just Lianderthral, she had followed Vanidar back to his rooms, which already looked bare of personal possessions. Despite the months during the war in which they had been separated, they had easily fallen back into the comfortable companionship they had once shared. "Surely you can stay a little longer."

"There is much to be done in Lórien, and I do confess that I yearn to return home," Vanidar said, his wispy eyebrows knitting slightly together. "I never expected my journey to take me so far, though I am glad that it did."

His words only underscored Sariel's own loneliness, for she had no place to call home, and now she was losing yet another one of her closest friends. Vanidar had done so much for her, on the strength of nothing more than childhood memories of a Sariel she no longer was. But Vanidar had never stopped believing in her, even after she had returned to Lórien so completely changed.

"I am glad as well," she replied, meeting eyes the color of frost. "You gave me back a part of myself." She tried to put all of her gratitude and affection into these simple words, though nothing could be adequate for expressing what she felt for him.

The angular features of his face softened, and Vanidar reached out to clasp her hand in his, not quite smiling. "We will meet again, Sariel, I am sure of it."

_Together forever_, she thought, remembering. It was an old promise, the kind made and kept by children. She had grown so cold under Belderon's tutelage, but no matter what innocence he had stolen, he had never been able to touch those memories.

She exchanged a heartfelt embrace with Vanidar, wishing for a moment, selfishly, that he could stay. One by one, her companions were returning to the places to which they belonged. Soon, no one would be left but Lianderthral. Looking at him as he spoke his own goodbyes to the silver-blond Elf, Sariel wondered if he had thoughts of returning to his abode in the mountains as well. If he left as well, what would she do?

She had been lost in the wilderness before and lost under the control of a dark power, but she had never felt so lost as she did here, in Legolas' home. She did not fit in with these Elves any more than she had with the lords and ladies of Rivendell or Lórien. She would always be different, and she was beginning to feel it keenly.

Afterward, she and Lianderthral took their leave of Vanidar, but Lianderthral walked with her through the halls to her room. She would not let him escort her to her door, but his own quarters were close to hers hers. His presence made it easier to ignore the curious glances that came her way, which had only increased in number after everything that had happened with Legolas. No doubt they were fueling some speculation behind closed doors even now, but Sariel did not think Lianderthral minded.

Along the way, she began to tell him about how her apology had finally went, though she could not bring herself to elaborate on the details. Lianderthral was more than perceptive enough to guess, however.

"What of Legolas?" he asked when she found she had no words to describe why she had abruptly left him the night before. Sariel looked at him and wondered whether she had told him too much.

"He is not angry with me," she said at last, just as they were reaching the point where they had to go their separate paths. Lianderthral had been walking faster and faster. "Or perhaps he is again, though I do not think so. Beyond that, you will have to ask him."

"Sariel, you must be the most stubborn person I have ever known. It is a quality—or fault—which has helped you survive, but be careful that it does not hurt you, as well."

This rare criticism from Lianderthral stung enough that she stopped in her tracks. His comment deserved a response, but try as she might, she could not say a word.

He had likewise stopped walking and now turned to face her directly, waiting until she looked up to meet his eyes. It was not until then that she realized he was angry. "Tell me something. Do you think your feelings will change if you deny them? Do you think you can outrun them if you try hard enough?"

"Lianderthral," she whispered helplessly. The suddenness of his harsh questions left her feeling as though her breath had been taken away.

He shook his head in denial of her plea, green eyes blazing in his face. "I can tell you _my_ answer to these questions, Sariel. No matter how irrational, no matter how impossible, these feelings do not change."

She wanted to block out his words but they kept coming, spurred by long pent-up frustration. His expression was like none she had seen before. "Is that what you are running from, Sariel? Did he ask if you are in love with him?"

His hands gripped her shoulders as Sariel stared up at him in shock. The pressure of his fingers lasted for a heartbeat, then two, before it lessened. He abruptly released her and took a step back.

She still stood as if rooted to the spot. Lianderthral cursed—yet another first, as she had never heard him do so before—and averted his gaze. From the paleness of his face, he seemed as shaken by his actions and words as she was. For a moment, he had lost control. A moment was all that was needed with someone of his abilities.

"Sariel…" There was no little horror in his eyes. Regret was already shadowing his features and he only glanced at her before his gaze dropped. "I have been cruel."

"No." She finally found her voice. "No," she said again. She took a step forward and reached to catch his hands in hers when he would have backed away. "It is no more than I deserve and you spoke only the truth."

His hands were ice cold and trembled faintly. "I touched you in anger, Sariel. I could have hurt you." The self-disgust in his voice dissipated the last of her shock.

"I am not so easily hurt," she said steadily, lacing his fingers with hers tightly. "Lianderthral, look at me. I trust you above all others and never once have you betrayed that trust."

Wild eyes locked with hers blindly at first, but bit by bit the churning green calmed as he took in her own composed expression. His words had hurt, but it was a slap that she had needed, and in some ways, had even provoked. She also understood that this went beyond their relationship. Sariel knew what he was thinking and what personal demons had haunted him after he had witnessed, long ago, the fate of his mentor. Only earlier she had been thinking he might return to his home, without remembering that his home was a self-imposed exile, as well.

She warmed his fingers with hers, cherishing this connection between them as she knew he cherished it. She let him know through touch that she had known true anger and cruelty before, and never at his hands. Without words, she told him that she had utter faith in his control. Slowly, slowly, she slipped her fingers from hers, caught his wrists in her hands, and brought his hands up to her shoulders, where they had so painfully gripped before.

Lianderthral lowered his gaze before closing his eyes and exhaling softly. He leaned forward and let his forehead rest gently against hers. They stood like that, not speaking, until all was right again.

* * *

She almost stepped on the package lying in front of her door. It was very wide and flat, and when Sariel picked it up, it was lighter than she expected. There was no name on it and the fine grey cloth, soft and as sleek as silk, bore no markings. She thought perhaps someone had left it by accident and finally opened the door and entered her room, bringing with her the odd package. Loosening the drawstring, she glimpsed the edge of a wooden frame and pulled the object from its cloth covering.

It was a painting, a painting so beautiful that it drove out all lingering thoughts of Lianderthral. Sariel actually gasped and set it down on the table hurriedly, afraid to even touch it. The painting depicted an ordinary scene, just a little section of the forest along with a doe and her fawn, but it came alive to her. More than that, somehow the skilled strokes of the artist's brush had illustrated the essence of almost otherworldly life in the poignant colors.

The sunlight streaming down, the mixture of fear and innocence in the doe's wild eyes, the curiosity in the fawn's stance, in its sleek, short fur—everything was so _alive_, so vivid in a way that had only partially to do with colors. She looked at the painting and realized that the artist had painted the scene with the same intense clarity that she saw when she was under the influence of her power. On the way back to Nenuial, Lianderthral had taught her to really see things for the first time, not just the outward appearance of things, but the spirit of its being. All of that, in this one thin slice of the forest, was captured in this one painting.

She thought about bringing it to Lianderthral or Vanidar, but neither were from Eryn Lasgalen and probably would not be able to tell her what she wanted to know. Who was the artist? Why had this painting been here? It had to be worth more than anything else she had ever seen, and she did not think someone would casually leave it outside her door. It likely had been a mistake.

Carefully slipping it back in the protective grey cloth, Sariel slipped back out of her room. Not knowing exactly who to find, she made her way towards the royal wings, too excited over this sudden discovery to even worry about other things. Luck was with her, because she had not even gone far before she saw Legolas coming her way, heading down the same hall she had chosen.

"Sariel," he greeted her reservedly, surprised to see her.

"You must see this, please," was all she said. Without another word of explanation, Sariel grabbed his hand and all but dragged him back to her room. He went along willingly enough, confused and a little alarmed at her behavior.

Legolas' questions fell on deaf ears as she made him sit down and then carefully uncovered the painting herself. It was just as gorgeous the second time she saw it, but she tore her gaze away. Legolas was as surprised as she had been, but Sariel, watching him closely, knew instantly that it was not the first time he had seen art like this. He recognized the painting in a way she had not.

"Who gave this to you?" he asked her.

"I brought you here to find that out. I found it outside of my door when I returned from my morning with Miluirin. _Queen_ Miluirin," she added hastily.

It was clearly enough to derail his line of thought, since Legolas sharply at her, raising his eyes from the painting. "You met my mother?"

"She called me to her." Uncomfortable, Sariel turning her attention back to the work of art. Knowing Legolas was able to ask more questions, she meaningfully looked at the painting and then at him.

He gave her a equally meaningful look that told her he was just letting it go until later, and then answered. "This is a work by an artist named Aurë. I still do not see how you have come by it. His paintings are quite rare and precious."

The name sounded familiar, but Sariel could not place it. She had met too many Elves here and the names blurred in her mind, especially since many had departed back to Imladris and others she had never met again.

"Would you be able to take me to him?" she asked Legolas. "Do you know where he might be, or if perhaps he has a studio?"

"I suppose I could," he said doubtfully, "but you must remember that artists hate being disturbed when they are working. If you still want to see him, come with me. Aurë is known to prefer solitude and lives apart from most."

* * *

It did take them a good while to walk to the place, but finally Sariel tapped on the door and waited for it to open. The moment she saw the startling cornflower blue eyes and pale silver hair, she remembered why the name Aurë seemed familiar.

"I am glad you survived the war," she told him as a greeting. Half his face was scarred terribly, but there was still the cold, bright beauty of a diamond in his features, all the more heartrending now that they were not perfect. She recalled that a poisoned orc blade had blinded him, so it was a miracle now that he could see.

Aurë may have been expecting her, for he let her in directly. The interior of the small cabin was chaotic. Piles of easels and half-finished drawings were stacked haphazardly, and Sariel and Legolas had to pick their way around the brushes and canvases on the floor. It still seemed as if there was a system to it, as if the person who had created such a mess still knew where everything was. What was even more impressive was that there were several finished artworks scattered across the room.

"Were you the one who left the painting outside my door?" she asked as she took a seat. "Why?"

Aurë ignored the question as he handed them each a cup of tea, not bothering to acknowledge or greet Legolas as would be befitting his prince. Legolas did not seem to mind, though Sariel did not think they had known each other before.

"I am giving away all of my work," he said at last. "I merely thought that you would like the painting I left for you."

She looked at the masterpieces all around the room. "But why?"

He gave a graceful shrug and turned away, seeming to search for something. "That part of my life is over."

"But you have healed and you are not blind, as you feared. And you paint with, with—" she struggled to think of a word to describe that special sight. "You paint with magic," she finally said lamely.

Aurë laughed, but the look in his eyes was serious and Sariel knew he perfectly understood what she had meant. It was hard to look at him; the scars were a painful and all-too-fresh reminder of the things the Elves had sacrificed in the war. Aurë caught her gaze before she could glance away, his expression changing.

"It is so," he said fiercely in response to her unspoken thoughts. "Everyone on my team died. I, who should not have lived, survived. Shall I describe what I saw when I woke after healing and walked into my studio?"

Before she could respond, he continued. "As soon as I entered, I found that the entire room, which was hung with brilliantly colored paintings, was utterly grey and void of color. My canvases, with the captured light that I was known for, were now all greyish or black and white. The art that was once rich with associations, feelings, _meanings_—it was all unfamiliar and meaningless to me. The paintings were _nothing_. And in that moment, I felt the magnitude of my loss overwhelm me."

"Aurë—" Sariel interrupted, but he did not hear. He drifted across the room until he found what he wanted and turned back to his audience. It was a painting framed by carved wood, another true masterpiece that showed the great halls of the Elvenking.

"Take it," Aurë said, thrusting it towards Legolas. When Legolas shook his head in refusal, the painter's tone turned savage. "Take it, prince, or I will only burn it later."

"Why are you doing this?" Sariel asked, made helpless by the intensity of his self-anger. Beside her, Legolas unwillingly took the painting, holding it as if it were something priceless. She knew it probably was.

"Why?" Aurë echoed, cornflower irises as brilliant as in his paintings. "I have spent my entire life in the beauty of art, but now such devotion is without meaning. I can no longer imagine how to go on."

"There is still beauty," she cried, but he barely reacted.

"A beauty I cannot capture, feel, or even see. I can no longer create things of meaning, of life, Sariel. Yes, I remember your name," he said, noticing her look of surprise. "I think many do, for you had death with you that day."

She remembered her flagon of poison and how Aurë had begged for it when he thought he had been blinded. She had not understood, then. But this was even worse for him, Sariel realized, this sight in shades of grey.

"This is the aftermath of war. Warriors return and find that their lives have completely changed, and they wonder how they can go on, when it seems as if the world has altered around them, without them."

It was only too true. She stood numbly, watching Aurë's willowy form as he paced around. Light shone on his hair, gleaming the very palest of silvers, and she wondered what it looked to him, whether it was a grey and dull as well.

"What color are your eyes, Sariel?"

She realized with a start that he had never seen her before today, because he had been blinded when she had tended to him. "Blue," she replied.

He laughed bitterly and the unhappiness of the sound lingered in the air around them. "They will always be grey to me."

Sariel was silent. It was agonizing to see the pain of others and to live it vicariously, as she was doing. How could she blame Aurë for surrendering to what fate had dealt him? But Sariel still did, as unfair and irrational as it was. She could not accept how he had given up now that he was a stranger to his own world. Worse yet, did his acceptance make him any happier than his struggle?

"Well, farewell, friends." Aurë stood in the doorway, as uncaring of the terrible scarring on his face now as he probably had been of his sharp beauty before. She exchanged a glance with Legolas, who carried a painting like she did now.

"I hope you find peace, Aurë." There was nothing more any of them could say.

They stepped outside and the door closed with quiet finality behind them. She was silent on the long way back, as was Legolas. Still, she was glad of his presence, for she remembered clearly the real terror she had felt when she thought he would die, and was thankful all over again for what she had not lost in the war.

* * *

Unable to sleep that night, Sariel left the palace, setting out to find the secret glade that she had retreated to before. When she did, it was again almost as if she had left Eryn Lasgalen somehow and ended up in another realm. Such a mysterious and lovely place had to have been designed by the gods for some special purpose. Even the sound of the waterfall seemed to hide the whispers of secret knowledge.

She had just finished washing her face in the creek, gasping at the coldness of the water, when her senses told her she was no longer alone. The back of her neck prickled with the awareness that someone was watching her. Sariel straightened from her crouch and scanned the closed copse carefully, recalling how it had looked the times before. Did something look out of place there? She walked slowly toward the stony shape, but it moved before she reached it. It was an Elf wearing such a skillfully woven cloak that the texture of the cloth blended perfectly with the rocks—and it was an Elf she recognized as easily as she recognized herself.

With a sinking feeling, Sariel wondered whether she should leave before the inevitable conversation came. Last night had been both painful and elating, and she was not sure whether she was ready to bring it up again. The hard questions Lianderthral had asked, and his sharp words, however, had convinced her of her own folly. Their encounter with Aurë together had also closed the distance between them a little. There was simply no way she justify the cowardice of leaving without a word.

In the end, it was partly her curiosity that won out. He had picked up the same charm bracelet she had noticed the last time she was here, and she wondered to whom it really belonged. The last time she had leapt to conclusions, she had made a fool of herself—but still, surely his connection to this pretty piece of jewelry was a little strange.

Cool blue eyes looked up and examined her as if Legolas were seeing her for the very first time.

She shifted under his scrutiny. "Why are you here?"

"I should be asking _you _that, perhaps," he replied with a raised eyebrow. "Did my mother show you how to find this place?"

His mention of the queen reminded her of Miluirin's words about how she affected her son, and Sariel looked away. "No, she did not. I found my way here before when I was wandering. From your words, I suppose this is for the royal family?"

"No, though I have been here ever since I was a child." He noticed that she was still looking at the bracelet and he deliberately played with it in front of her, dangling the silver links from between his fingers. Oddly enough, there were no charms.

"My sister found it first long ago," Legolas explained, "and this belonged to her as well. I think of her sometimes when I am here, because it was our favorite hiding place. Only our mother could ever find us here."

Sariel was sorry now that she had intruded in such a dear place to him. It was only that this place reminded her of her own meadow, one of the few secrets she had managed to keep from Belderon. Her sister had been buried there, thousands of miles away, so it was all the more surprising to hear from him that this place had been Rhiannon's, too. What kind of loving relationship had he had with his sister?

"I will go now," she said. "And I can promise you that I will not return."

"No, please stay." He looked at the bracelet in his hand for a long time before he looked up to meet her cautious eyes. "I suppose I should not be surprised that you could so easily find yet another one of my secrets."

"I suppose I should not be surprised that it was _your _secret," she answered.

"It does feel as though there is a certain inevitability, does it not?" His chuckle ghosted over her like velvet. "Come on, we will walk together for a while, then. Did you know, Sariel, that we met nearly a year ago?"

It was odd to look back and see how far she had come, how they both had changed. Once, when she had traveled with Lianderthral, she had asked herself whether what she felt for Legolas was truly love, or merely infatuation born of admiration and attraction. Though it had only been a year, she felt impossibly older and wiser now, though perhaps she still could not identify what it was that she felt. But here they were again, Sariel and Legolas, apart and yet together.

"Back to where we began," he said, echoing her thoughts. "You and me."

"I suppose you wished you had never met me."

He smiled slightly. "No, I never do. It was fate, I like to think."

"Why would you think that?" she asked.

"Well, if I had never met you on the way to Lothlórien, then what would have happened?"

"I would have killed you," Sariel answered. "I would not have hesitated. I…would have never met you at all."

"A chance encounter in both of our long journeys changed so much," Legolas mused. They had come to a stop before the small waterfall, both of them contemplating the gravity of water. The faint spray of mist wet Sariel's cheek, the sound of rushing water nearly obscuring his next words.

"Just for tonight…" When his voice drifted off and he did not continue, she turned toward him questioningly. "Just for tonight, can we not meet again?"

She understood what he meant, after a moment. They were both standing here too, by the purest of chance. What would it be like to erase all that had happened between them before? All the misunderstandings and difficulties that had come from their doubt of each other, and from circumstances beyond their control?

He wanted to go back to the very beginning, when they had first felt the connection between them, and when nothing else had mattered yet. He had not been a prince and she had not been an assassin; there had been nothing more to explore than the pleasure of each other's company. Since then, her heart had changed so much, bit by bit. She was tired of denying herself what she wanted so much. She could see the same weariness reflected in his eyes. Just for tonight…what could be the harm?

She held out her hand to him and he reached out to entwine their fingers together. They spoke no more, but Legolas gestured and with that movement, invited Sariel to explore his haven with him. The moonlight pouring over them, reflected into a glistening white over the flowing dark water. They had been walking alongside the creek and to the waterfall; now Legolas led her away to see the moon lilies and night-blooming flowers. Some were white and nearly incandescent in the soft light.

She thought she was imagining it at first, the golden pinpricks of light floating through the air and carpeting the grass beneath. A smile transformed her face as she finally realized what they were.

"Fireflies," Legolas said, confirming it. He reached out with a hand in hopes of enticing one to land on him, but his eyes were on her. "They appear here in the late summer nights as if by magic. You have not seen them before?"

"Only very rarely, and never this many." Sariel caught her breath as he gave up waiting and instead deftly caught one in his hands for her to see.

"It is how they court, you know," he explained to her. "The males in the air make distinctive patterns as they fly. The glow is to signal to the females on the ground, who respond with their own courtship dance."

It was such a small insect in his hands, but it glowed more brightly than she imagined possible. She made him release it, fearing to accidentally injure it, but the fireflies continued to float all around them, providing the most ethereal of lights. The grass was dewy beneath them in the glade, but Legolas spread his cloak over it while she rescued the fireflies that were in the way. They lay on their backs to look at the stars, tracing out the constellations and laughing at the occasional firefly that became a part of one. He started telling her of the legends and myths behind the constellations and they were all new to her, though she had used the stars to navigate all her life.

They sat up when even his cloak became damp, and the air was sweet, even as it was cold. After a while, she asked him for a song.

"Only if you sing with me, Sariel," he negotiated. "What would you like to hear?"

"One of Rhiannon's would be fitting," she replied softly. "If you have the heart for it. My mother used to sing her songs to me, before everything changed."

It _was_ appropriate, this other, unexpected link between them. He thought for a moment and then lifted his voice in melody, the clear, pure notes coming so effortlessly from his throat. It had been so long, it was almost a shock again to hear his voice, the unearthly gift that seemed to be able to make even time stop for a moment.

She recognized the song; it was a tribute to Elbereth, lady of the stars. She wondered if Rhiannon had composed it sitting right here in this hidden glade, just as she and Legolas were doing now. When Sariel sang her first notes, they were soft and uncertain—she knew her voice was no match for him. Yet talent and skill did not matter so much, when it was happiness that inspired the music.

They had shifted nearer to each other and when she showed her consent by leaning in closer, Legolas slipped a warm arm around her, resting lightly across the small of her back. He felt light-hearted now as he had not since before the days of the War of the Ring, and as Sariel curled into the cradle of his arm and rested her head on his shoulder, the warmth of contentment unfurled in him. Whether she could say it or not, he could feel how she cherished him, and only hoped she felt the same way. He dropped a light kiss on her forehead.

They stayed in their own private paradise for most of the night, doing nothing more than allowing themselves to be with each other. There were no other people, no looming war, or worries of the past or future. They walked through the trees hand in hand, and her delight in the wilderness around them made him see again the splendor of his forest realm, though it was old and familiar. The night's soft, muted colors made the secret place so much the more enchanted, and he felt his cares drop away. For tonight, at least, all other things were superfluous except for this peace.

The sky was lightening, coloring dawn, when Legolas pulled his hand away suddenly, making her wonder if she had done something wrong. Alarmed, she turned to him at time that he turned to her. Their eyes met, two shades of blue, clear and dark. His hand grasped hers again, but there was something between their palms, cool and heavy. She felt the shape of the metal and knew what it was.

"I want you to have it," he whispered to her, his voice too intimate and the look in his eyes sending a shiver down her spine. He closed her hand into a fist, holding his hand over hers for a moment longer. When she opened her hand, the gleam of silver caught the moonlight.

"Legolas, you should not," she said, voice hushed because it seemed wrong to speak of something so sacred to him.

"Why not?" He leaned in, brushing his lips over her cheek and letting his fingertips trace the edge of her face.

"It is too precious to you. You told me it had been Rhiannon's. I cannot accept something that was left to you by your sister." He did not even know that his mother had already gifted her extravagantly, but a gown never before worn could not compare to a bracelet that had adored the wrist of the princess.

"I will never wear it, Sariel," he pointed out with humor dancing in his eyes, "and it deserves to be worn."

She heard herself speak as if from a distance. "Then save it for…"

"No one else," he told her firmly, eyes never leaving her face. "Rhiannon was a great romantic, you know. I daresay she would have made a song of our story. She would have wanted me to give her bracelet to someone…" he caught his breath a little, and laughed softly, self-consciously. "To someone special," he finished.

He did not wait for her response but fastened it around her wrist. It was such a fragile moment between them and there had not been many, but when they forgot their fears and doubts and trusted in each other, everything fell into place.

She put her thanks and more into the kiss, and when they finally broke apart, they were both breathing hard and warm with passion. She rested her head against the curve of his neck and listened to his heartbeat.

"There are no charms on it," he whispered in her ear, "because the wearer is more than charm enough."

Sariel closed her eyes, wishing that dawn would never come.

* * *

"You are tired," Miluirin said to her husband that night, although neither had retired to their rooms. This late, everyone had left and the throne room seemed larger because it was so empty. "You should not worry so over what things may come."

"Yet there is much to be concerned about." Thranduil sighed wearily, rubbing his temple with his finger. "Caranfer grows more and more outspoken against the assassin, and our son, through his connection to her. The whole court knows of it, though they seem to have forgotten that he was once one of Belderon's own inner circle."

Miluirin's eyes narrowed and she laid a concerned hand on Thranduil's arm. "Do you speak of treason?"

He sighed. "I know not yet, Miluirin. There are rumblings of discontent, but when have there ever been not? There are always some that dream of reliving the days of Greenwood the Great and do not understand why we have retreated into the northern realm above the fir-covered mountains, leaving the southern forest beneath the Narrows for East Lórien."

His queen nodded, having heard much the same herself. "It is a small group you speak of, but influential."

"They feel we should claim back what was our right, in days long past, and resent that the land between our two Elf realms have been given to the Beornings and the Woodmen." In earlier days, Thranduil himself had been more supportive of the idea, but those times were long past. It had not even been a decade since the shadow over Mirkwood had been lifted.

"Caranfer is the leader of all this," Miluirin noted. "He has been stirring up discontent, and the loyalties to you may have been swayed by the grief from the war. He came to me even today, full of self-righteous anger."

"Then it grows serious," the king said grimly, "if he is so desperate as that. In the past few councils, he has defied my authority time and time again. He thinks what he does is for the good of the kingdom, and there are some that agree with him. I want Legolas to sever his association with the assassin. She has brought only war and destruction to us, and the discontent readily use that as weapons against us."

"Thranduil," Miluirin said gently, "I must speak with you on this."

"I heard that you conversed with Sariel this morning," he said chidingly, using the name with a hint of distaste. "I advised you not to meet with her. She is not welcome here, and you will only encourage her, for all that are with you grow to love you. You are too gentle and compassionate, Miluirin."

"I did not seek her out until now," she said, dismissing his rebuke easily. "Thranduil, there is something between them, I think, that may very well be love."

"What—?" he stared at his wife, and she sighed at the blindness of males. As much as she loved her husband, there were times when it was frustrating for her to even speak with him.

"You have certainly heard the rumors already, and why else do you think that Legolas would go chasing after her when she returned to Nenuial? Or bring her back here, to his home?"

"Miluirin, this is nonsense! Belderon was bringing a war to our doorstep—"

"Yes, yes," she chided. "But that is hardly the whole story. I have heard it with my own ears and seen it now with my own eyes. In fact, I think it is not Legolas who resists, but Sariel herself. Thranduil, you know as well as I that Legolas has always refused to wed, despite my attempts to devise something of a betrothal."

"What are you trying to convince me of?" her husband sighed.

"_Furthermore_, he has never found anyone that he has shown any interest in, other than for a fleeting time. Among the ladies of the court, he has developed a reputation for aloofness, and that has certainly not helped any." Now Miluirin paused, carefully bringing her strategy to a close. "If nothing else, think of a child, my dear one."

Thranduil chose to disregard the last altogether, having no viable defense ready. "Yet now that he _has_ found someone, he has chosen to take an interest in the very person who tried to kill him once? Remember who she is, Miluirin! She is a product of Belderon, and you already know how twisted that bloodline has proved itself to be."

"It is unfair to blame her for that and you know it," Miluirin replied, steel edging her voice. "I know who she _was_, but I have more faith in who she can become."

"Well, whatever Legolas may feel or not, I want him to stop associating with her," Thranduil countered, adamant. "If the lack of his attention can convince her to leave, so much the better. She is a stranger to here, and I will not let all of Eryn Lasgalen fall into turmoil from the trouble she brings."

* * *

Notes: Aurë's condition is real and is known as achromatopsia. I originally planned on writing a short story following up on him (with another character you've seen) if there was enough interest, but I have to admit that I currently don't even remember if many people supported that idea or if I just didn't get around to writing it.

**Please review**!

Finalized _November 2010_


	26. Volition

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

**Chapter 26: Volition**

She wore the bracelet he had given to her, though it was usually hidden beneath her sleeve. In her more rational moments, Sariel knew that she should probably not, since her decision to do so was an act of false hope. But the cool metal glittered a pure silver, and she could not forget the tenderness in his expression as he had given it to her or the sincerity of his voice as he told her she was special. Yes, she _was _special, and mainly for all the wrong reasons, but the links that encircled her wrist proved something she no longer had the will to deny.

Something had changed between them that night, or maybe she had deliberately crossed the point of no return. For the first time, they faced no immediate, apparent danger. War no longer loomed over their heads and even Belderon's memory seemed less haunting. Though there was certainly unease and uncertainty, the relative peace meant that their feelings for one another were all the more irrepressible.

Without consciously trying, they spent more and more stolen hours together, lured by the impossible beauty of the forest in its summer attire. There were hours when it was hard for Sariel to remember the reasons why she was the one who needed to maintain some distance between them, since he never showed such restraint. Where she had once resisted, she found herself damning the consequences. If the Elves of Eryn Lasgalen did not welcome her presence, they at least tolerated it, and none ever treated her badly. Even if she had cared, it would have made little difference. After all, Legolas was the only one that mattered in the end.

It was a strange experience to have so much time on her hands, and especially to be able to explore this new world with him by her side. He was making his home hers, in a way, when he pointed out his favorite things to her, or asked her to come along when he visited old friends that he had not seen in a long time. In return, he was there when her arm finally healed completely, and he accompanied her when she went to speak with Aurё for a second time. Even when he was busy, she found that she could assist him in most of his mundane responsibilities. She possessed a good head for numbers and could write faster than him, even if she lacked his polished style.

Over the space of a few weeks, they settled into something that was almost like a rhythm, where what mattered was tomorrow and not the past. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was aware of the looming presence of time and of the increasing tension between Legolas and his father. He would not speak of it and she had not the heart to demand him to tell her what was wrong, but it was not hard to guess. The shadow it cast over them seemed to darken as the days flew by. She knew that this could not possibly last forever, even as summer moved inevitably towards autumn. He must have felt it as well, but they ignored it; if there was a premonition that their time was short, it only made everything more precious.

_For why should I deny myself this happiness? _she asked herself one night, lazily swimming in the pool of the glade. _Dreams may be ephemeral, but that does not mean they are not worth being dreamt._ And it was like a dream, in so many ways. Even the slightest brush of their hands, or the mere warmth of his presence just next to her, nearly touching but not quite, inevitably caused her heart to beat faster. However wryly she might smile later over the knowledge that she was so susceptible to his allure, it did not change the fact that her feelings never changed and the connection between them, mysterious in its strength and complexity, never waned.

* * *

It was high summer and the kind of time when even late at night, the water was merely cool, not cold. Sariel had retreated to the secret glade and was practicing her knife work, her opponent nothing but the evening breeze. Initially, she had felt some qualms over relentlessly continuing almost all of the practices and drills that she had been taught in preparation for her work as an assassin. How could she renounce the past or even think of herself as someone who had changed, if she never gave up the abilities that made her such a deadly killer? Though her father's sword remained broken, she had never favored the sword in the first place. Her body was her weapon and she had continued the exercises that made her skills second nature to her, keeping them a half step away from basic instinct.

But despite her trepidations, Sariel found that it was indeed hard to give up the routines of an entire lifetime. The ability to kill, if not the desire, seemed too deeply engrained in her to ever be changed. It was too much a fundamental part of her, and as Lianderthral had pointed out to her, perhaps it was something she could no more give up than he could renounce his powers. How could she erase the knowledge of exactly where to strike in order to simultaneously pierce the heart and sever the spine? How could she recondition her body to _not _react? The only thing she could do was resolve to use her skills to protect rather than harm.

She had just finished bathing after her exertions when her senses told her that someone was coming, and that someone could only be Legolas. Quickly, Sariel donned her clothes, her hair still wet and tangled.

"Legolas," she greeted him, as she combed through her locks hastily. "I thought you were meeting with the king."

She was most definitely fully clothed but somehow, the way that he looked at her made her blush. Sariel wondered just how much he might have seen and her cheeks warmed at the thought. She shivered as the cool night air caressed her slightly damp flesh and he smiled slightly before taking her into his arms, completely disregarding the state of her half-braided wet hair. He was extraordinarily warm, so much so that she did not hold back a sigh of pleasure as his heat seeped into her past the layers of clothing between them.

She could see desire and more in his eyes, so Sariel closed hers to avoid looking too deeply into temptation. It was enough that she felt an almost irrepressible urge to touch him and to be close to him. She had dreamed more than once, too, of his strong, lithe body beside her own, holding her tenderly. While these feelings were not unwelcome, she was still learning how to accept them and was glad he never did anything to make her uncomfortable. She should have been beyond any innocence and yet he, more so than anyone else, understood that in so many things she was the most innocent of them all.

"What brings you here?" she asked when he finally consented to let her go. She had not seen him very much for the past few days and the absence had impressed upon her just how much she looked forward to these moments with him.

"I could not stand the thought of another discussion with Lord Caranfer," he said lightly, smiling to show just how tiresome he found the older Elf. Sariel's pleasure faded at the mention of the name, though she was careful not to let it affect her demeanor.

If anything darkened her days at Eryn Lasgalen, it was the thought of Caranfer. Ever since the queen had informed her of her biggest detractor, Sariel had often been sleepless and heartsick at night, knowing that he continued to speak ill of her. Without even trying very hard, she managed to keep track of Caranfer's ever increasing complaints, and she was not the only one who had begun to take notice. To her dismay, several of the other king's advisors seemed to share his opinion of her. No doubt Legolas knew that she was aware of some of the currents in the court—after all, she had been helping him, though never before others' eyes—but Sariel doubted that he knew the extent of her knowledge.

"What is it that he wants of you?" she asked Legolas, keeping her tone casual, though curious. "This is your third meeting with him this week, is it not?"

"Caranfer always wants more than he can get," Legolas answered vaguely and dismissively. "For all his intelligence and reason, he truly has a child's sense of justice. Perhaps it is because of what happened…"

He stopped and when it was clear he was not going to finish the sentence, Sariel gave him an inquiring look. "What happened?" she prompted.

Legolas gave a graceful shrug. "Suffice to say that Lord Caranfer has a singular vision of the Elves, and he would make us all as pure as the Vala, if he could."

_And he sees me as embodying the taint of evil_, Sariel added silently in her mind. She realized that Legolas had redirected the conversation, but this was an opportunity to hear what he thought of Caranfer and she was not about to let it pass by.

"I imagine he is none too pleased about my presence then," she said carefully.

He was not the only one and both of them knew it, so Legolas did not pretend to be surprised at her comment. "Caranfer clings to the traditional. He thinks it is our duty to burn out evil with the sheer magnitude of our honor and glory."

The derision on his voice was heavy enough that Sariel could not be sure if he was entirely literal about what he had said last, or exaggerating in his sarcasm. For everyone's sake, she hoped it was the latter.

"Well, I was not aware the Elves here had such ambitions," she said.

"Some do, and the reasons are long and complex, but they are not things we can change." Legolas sighed, his own thoughts gloomy. "Let us not speak of such things. My father will never let Caranfer have his way, so there is no reason to worry."

Thranduil could indeed be stubborn about many things, one of which Legolas had kept hidden from Sariel. It was becoming harder and harder for him to slip away to see her, even with his mother's tacit encouragement. If Legolas had once hoped that his father would warm to Sariel, those hopes had all but vanished. Thranduil saw her as a threat both personally and objectively, the former because of his son's involvement and the latter because of the security of his kingdom.

He hated the fact that he was the cause for his parents' disputes; Miluirin sided with her son and made a point of befriending Sariel, whereas Thranduil made his dislike of her obvious enough that others felt no reservations about following suit. But Legolas was hard pressed to be less than fair: Thranduil distrusted Sariel and the basis for such distrust was, after all, indisputable. It was a small mercy that his father had not decided to do something drastic—such as trying her for the murder of his subjects.

Legolas had been lost in his thoughts for too long; Sariel was looking at him curiously, undoubtedly sensing his less than serene mood. "I do have some news for you," he told her, and watched her brighten.

"Have you heard from Arwen, then?"

"Indeed. She and Aragorn both seem to be thriving in Gondor, where they continue to rebuild the kingdom. All is well there."

She gave him a heartfelt smile. "No news could be better. They deserve every happiness we can possibly wish for them."

_As do you_, Legolas almost said, but he merely nodded in agreement. "The message was short, but Arwen promises to send a letter to you soon."

"I miss her," she admitted. "I have you, and Lianderthral. I can even talk to Ithildin, but everyone else has gone, and there are some things I think I cannot share with you, simply because of the fact that you are all male."

"I thought you liked us that way," he said in hurt disbelief, teasing, and was rewarded with the rare sound of her laughter.

"You know I do," Sariel said, "but Arwen is special. I owe so much to her and she understands me so well. If there is true honor and glory in the Elven race, I think it is all shown in her."

"Do you remember what it was like in Belethil's light?" he asked softly.

They had never spoken of it until now, but she understood why he had brought it up. In that moment when Kaeloriel the wolf had transformed into Belethil, they had seemed to shift to another reality, one where their true selves were not their physical beings, but things purely of light. Light that was impossibly complex and eternal, light that held emotions and thoughts, light which embodied beauty, courage, and grace.

It had been something privately shared by all her companions, all those who had come to help her stop Belderon. There had been that music, as well, that haunting and overwhelming song of the world, unfolding just as reality had unfolded for them. Legolas recalled that moment of light and music now, Sariel knew, because _that _was the nobility and splendor that Caranfer dreamed of, though he did not even know it. _That _was the purity that had chained Belderon's evil and erased him from existence.

He saw in her face that she understood, just as Sariel was content in the knowledge that he had seen Arwen then too: the Evenstar of their people. Yet, in the end, Arwen had chosen humanity over glory and ultimately, love over eternity. Because what was splendor and beauty, without compassion? What was the bright sword of justice, without being tempered by the flame of mercy?

She had seen everyone but herself, Sariel realized, in that time when two realities had been overlaid. Suddenly she wondered what everyone else had seen when they had looked at her. Perhaps she had not existed at all in that other dimension of light, for almost all her life she had only been an extension of Belderon.

"You are more like Arwen than you realize," Legolas told her. "There is something of the Lady Galadriel in both of you, which speaks of steel beneath silk."

"Belderon did not choose my family randomly," Sariel reminded him, the words heavy. Belderon had wanted her specifically and had destroyed her family to get her, and that was another guilt that she would always carry.

Legolas took both of her hands in his, drawing her close until she let her head rest against his shoulder. "But now you can choose who you want to be."

Whether it was true or not, all Sariel was sure of at that moment was that she wanted to be worthy of him.

* * *

Despite her newfound enjoyment of life, things were almost too peaceful, leaving Sariel with too much time to think. Idleness did not suit her, but she had no given tasks to complete, no idea of what it was she could _do._

Even Lianderthral was occupied more often than not. Sariel was not sure who had first thought of the idea, but it seemed he was spending a lot of time with Eros and a few others from Eryn Lasgalen, mostly teaching them things. Lianderthral was well-traveled, of course, and she had always admired the breadth and depth of his intelligence, so it was not surprising that he would have much to offer. As she had noticed earlier, many had come to respect him during the war, when he had led them.

"After all, he taught me as well," she found herself saying one morning to Gimli, for just as all her other companions had left, so too was the Dwarf preparing to take his own leave, though Legolas had successfully begged him to delay it for a while more. One by one, those who understood her best were continuing their lives. Even Gandalf had already left the week before.

Gimli was watching her closely, with an unusually serious mien. "Does that upset you?"

"What?" Confused, Sariel asked, "Do you mean because he is teaching others?"

The Dwarf shook his head in negation. "No, that he is with Eros instead of with you."

Sariel took a moment to really think before she answered. It was a mark of how much that one incident with Lianderthral had changed things between them. Secretly, she had of course wondered whether this was his way of avoiding her. But how could she blame him, even if it was true? She had chosen Legolas's company over his and if there had been any choice to make at all, it had already been made long before.

It did cause a small pang in her heart to think of Lianderthral with someone else, but that was nothing compared to what he must feel, she knew. She was close to him, so close that she could claim that he was her soul mate without hyperbole, and yet that was not enough for matters of the heart. She thought sometimes that if she could have chosen otherwise for him, she would have—Sariel would have erased herself from his heart, as if healing him of the pain and hurt brought on by her influence. But such powers were not granted to anyone, and perhaps that was the way it should be.

"No," she finally answered honestly. "I only hope he can find happiness as well. I hope the same for Eros as well, whether they do so together or otherwise."

"Then I have some words of advice to you, Sariel," Gimli said gruffly. "I have long thought that Elves are too fond of complexity, too quick to forego simplicity in the search for beauty. But you, Sariel, are unlike any others of your race. You must not forget that it is not only your weakness, but also the source of your strength. You know what it is that you treasure, and as long as you do, you will always be able to find your path, even when you feel lost."

Touched, Sariel knelt and grasped the Dwarf in an embrace, heedless of the discomfort of his steel-ringed shirt. Gimli's laugh was rough and embarrassed, but the Dwarf beamed at her. He was not one prone to speeches, but that made his words all the more dear to her. Nor had she forgotten that it was Gimli, out of all of them, who had accepted her first. She had only joined Aragorn, Legolas, and Boromir on that fateful day on her way to Lórien because it was the Dwarf who had extended to her the offer and welcomed her into their group. Such little things that had changed everything.

"Gimli, I can never thank you enough," she said quietly, thinking of all he had done for her, for no reason other than the goodness of his heart.

"Nonsense," he said with a broad smile, half-hidden by his beard. "Thanks are never needed from a lady such as yourself."

She had once falsely introduced herself to him as a lady, but Sariel had never felt like one until just now, because there was nothing in his voice when he named her so but respect and an unshakeable faith in her. She kissed him on the cheek and watched with laughter bubbling up inside of her as he promptly turned a ruddy red.

Yes, he was a lord among his people too, and she could imagine it then, all his grand plans come to fruition one day soon. He had told her that he meant to lead a number of his folk south to Aglarond, the glittering caves behind Helm's Deep. There he wanted to establish a new kingdom and rebuild what had been destroyed in war.

Sariel parted ways with Gimli shortly after—though not without kissing him on the other cheek as well, much to his delight—and headed back to her rooms. Legolas had gifted her with parchment and she had begun keeping a sort of journal, though more often than not she was too deeply lost in her thoughts to write them down. Gimli had left her much to think about. The Master Dwarf had just assured her that she would be able to find her path, but compared to others, Sariel had none. What is it that she could do? She had been an assassin by profession but now, what was she? _Who_ was she?

One by one, her identities had been stripped away from her. She was no longer a daughter, nor was she a sister. She had been a nightingale, a slave, and a weapon, and now she was none of those, either. Though she had lived for many hundreds of years, it seemed the sum of her existence was quite pitiful. In the end, when she took away everything that Belderon had made her into, she was left with a terrifying nothing.

* * *

"Will you not tell me what it is that causes you to have such a heavy heart, child?"

"There is no trouble," Sariel replied as she stared down into the tea in her hands. "More of a thought that I cannot seem to be rid of, no matter how I try."

"Mayhap I will be able to help, then, or at least I can offer a willing ear to hear this thought," Miluirin encouraged. Today she was wearing a moss green dress that made her look like some rare and mysterious forest spirit, and they were in the garden again.

Still Sariel held back, unsure of what she even wanted to say. Though she had grown much more comfortable in Miluirin's presence, she knew the queen had much more important things to do than become her confidante.

"Sariel, trust me, you will feel better for having shared your worries." There was faint concern in her blue-grey eyes, though her general demeanor was as serene and queenly as ever.

"Have you ever felt that one of your past mistakes now prevents your future?" she asked, feeling foolish for the ineloquence and transparency of the question.

"Are you asking me if it is possible to start over by erasing your past?" Miluirin had worded it so well that she could only nod in mute agreement, so the older Elf continued, her tone thoughtful. "Well, it would be nice to believe so, I feel, but I do not think it is possible."

Seeing that her answer was not what Sariel had hoped for, the queen hastened to add to her words. "I think that our past stays with us whether we wish it to or not, but as to how much it can affect our future…it depends, Sariel. There are different circumstances for everyone. Yet even so, I think you must trust that your past can affect your future only as much as you let it."

"What do you mean?" Sariel asked. "How can you 'let' something affect your future? You have no say in it."

"You will never have complete control over that," Miluirin agreed, "but in most cases, I do not feel that a person should be made to pay for what they did in the past with their entire future, not if they are seeking to change and capable of it. It is important to keep the hope alive and to believe in a future that is better than the past that you leave behind. Else why do we continue to live, if not to grow?"

Why, indeed. Milurin had surely guessed at the concerns behind her question. Sariel could not envision any future with Legolas. Each time she tried, she felt the chilling shadow of her past hanging over her like some dark cloud. Before the war, she had been afraid of what might come after. Now the war was over, she was still afraid, for each day took her closer to a future where the good things in her life now might end.

"I am afraid to live," she confessed, startling herself at how easy it was to admit.

"I know, dear child," the queen said gently. "It is only because you have not had any choices before, in your life. Each step, each fork in the road you faced, was decided for you in some way or another."

"But now a hundred paths lie before me," Sariel said so softly that she could barely hear herself. "And I am so afraid that the ones I choose will lead only to misery, for myself and for others."

"Few of us may know the future, Sariel. Only you can decide what you want," Miluirin reminded her, "and if you have faith in yourself, it will not be so hard."

She had wanted freedom, but now she was learning that independence needed courage, as well. Coming to Eryn Lasgalen had thrown her into a new life that she was not completely prepared for, and she was still adjusting to all the changes. Her worry was that she could not make anything of her life, not now, so late. She had renounced her old life only to find that it was harder than she expected to take up a new one.

Yet others had done so. Aragorn and Arwen, to begin with. She could look to them to remind herself that shattered lives could be rebuilt, slowly, piece by piece. After all, was not change the essential basis of life?

"Your choices are your own," Miluirin impressed on her, the sentiment a variation of what Sariel had heard from everyone else. "Love, too, is a choice as well, though not in the way many people suppose. You can choose to accept it within yourself, or you can choose to deny it until you can no longer do so."

The truth of the queen's words was exhilarating and frightening at the same time. There was no one now to dictate her thoughts or actions, no one to blame responsibility on but herself. There was no one to stop her from dreaming—yes, even these impossible, reckless dreams that she could not seem to be able to give up.

_What I want is him_, Sariel wished she dared to say. _But I am afraid that because of who I once was, I will never have him_.

* * *

He came to her room nearly in the middle of the night, when she had just been preparing to sleep. At first Sariel hesitated against opening the door because she was dressed lightly. She quickly pulled on a cloak, eager to see him despite the odd circumstances. It had been a while since she had last spoken to him, so she was cheered by his appearance despite her slight alarm at its circumstances.

Legolas stood in the doorway, and for a moment she almost asked him first why he was here so late. There was an unspoken agreement between them that they would not enter each other's rooms late at night, not even for conversation. If they wanted company in the hours when others were sleeping, they met in other places, more often than not at their secret glade. This was not only a practical consideration against fueling speculation, but also, in a way, something that hinted at the seriousness of the troubles they faced. They could not afford to behave irresponsibly, even in innocence.

His stance was tense now, however, and his eyes serious. Sariel let him into the room without a word and he motioned for her to sit.

"What is it?" she asked, countless previously unimagined fears rising to mind. "Has something happened?"

"No, nothing like that," Legolas was quick to reply, though a 'yet' seemed to be on the tip of his tongue. He smiled to reassure her, but it was not convincing and only confirmed for her that something was wrong.

"Why are you here, then?" It was not for her company, she knew very well. His eyes were dark from worry, not from desire. Besides, Sariel was sure he would never have come to her in this way.

"I wanted speak to you about a matter," he said tightly, "that concerns you. You have likely heard of Lord Caranfer. He has been—"

"Yes, I know," Sariel interrupted. "I know more about him than you think, Legolas. What has he done?"

Surprise flickered in his blue eyes before it changed into a considering look. "He has convinced enough of the other advisers that they have petitioned my father for action. He has finally called a Gathering to settle the matters they have brought up."

"A Gathering?" She could hear the importance of it in the formality of the way he said such a common word. Instantly Sariel was reminded of the council at Lórien and the bottom of her stomach seemed to hollow with anxiety at the memories.

"Yes, it is as you imagine," he confirmed, seeing her reaction. "Here in Eryn Lasgalen we have come to call it a Gathering, but it is very much the same as the Councils that Lady Galadriel and Lord Elrond call."

"So they will meet…to discuss what to do with _me_."

He looked pained, but he did not deny it. "Sariel, perhaps you know what Caranfer has been doing, yet there is one thing I am sure no one has brought up to you. Caranfer was once one of Belderon's most trusted allies. He took Belderon's betrayal of my father very hard, and it was that event that made him harden his views on justice."

He was right; she had never expected this connection and the mention of Belderon rocked the foundation of the calm she was trying to maintain. "You mean to say he is like Belderon? That he sympathizeswith Belderon's cause?"

"No, not like that!" he exclaimed. "Caranfer called for Belderon's execution when the rest merely wanted his exile. But I think what happened with Belderon changed the way Caranfer looked at things. I once would have said he would be last person to challenge my father, but perhaps that is exactly why he is doing this."

"Because he thinks Thranduil has as good as let Belderon back in and is doing nothing about it?" Sariel buried her head in her arms, unable to look Legolas in the eye.

"I do not know exactly what Caranfer is thinking, but we will know soon enough."

"We?" She hoped she had misheard, but knew she had not.

"Yes, you must be there as well." Legolas saw the look of dread that crossed her face before she could hide it, and dropped down to sit next to her, putting his arm around her shoulders.

"Not alone, Sariel. I will be with you and it will not be like Lórien. I will _never _let that happen." She could hear the regret and guilt thick in his voice. He had been a witness to those Elves when they had tortured her, and had done nothing to stop it—in fact, had all but encouraged it, blinded by his own anger and hurt over her actions.

She had brought it all upon herself, though. In the end, the scars on her back were a small price to pay for her attempt at murder. He had forgiven her for so much more than she would ever need to forgive him for. Wordlessly she took his hand in his and laced their fingers together.

Even though it was likely unwise, Legolas did not leave, and she did not ask him to. They were rebuilding the bonds of friendship and trust between them, but perhaps they were already closer than either had realized. Even the news that Legolas had brought did not strain the bond between them as it would have before. They talked for a long time into the night and Sariel found her fears soothed by his presence.

* * *

King Thranduil presided over the assembled Elves grimly, acutely aware of their peaking discontent. Ever since the aftermath of the war, there had been ill feelings over what exactly had brought the war to their doorstep. Although he knew that with or without Sariel, Belderon had always intended to destroy Mirkwood, the campaign Caranfer had started against Sariel had shifted the attention to her. After all, it was easier to make her the problem rather than facing the fact that someone that many of them knew, and had had ties to in the past, had returned in such a fashion. Nor would they have to acknowledge the mistake they had made in exiling Belderon and leaving him free not to repent, but to plan revenge.

The Elves were already restless. They had seen much bloodshed recently and the mood it had created had not entirely faded, though the war had ended. It took time for warriors to return to their ordinary lives and for his people to become accustomed to peace once more.

Miluirin sat by Thranduil's side, yet there was a stony silence between them despite their close proximity. They had quarreled again last night and though they had both dropped the matter, there had been no apologies spoken. Such discord was rare between them and all the more serious for it. He could not help but think that if _she_ had not come here, there would not have been a problem at all.

The cause for Thranduil's discontent arrived just then with his son. She had her arm boldly linked with his, her fingertips resting on the back of his wrist, and Legolas was playing every bit the protective escort. Thranduil looked at her with discerning eyes. She was pretty, he could not dispute, with her unusual coloring. Still, there were plenty that were more beautiful and Legolas could have hardly chosen a worst person to champion. It was all due to Miluirin's wholehearted support of the them that things had come to such a head. He had asked and then had ordered his son to stay away from her, to no avail—and his efforts were being undermined by his own queen.

For today, however, they would all need to be allies together. He knew that to other eyes, he and Miluirin seemed to be in perfect harmony as they always were. They themselves were the only ones who could sense the unexpected rift between them.

On the other side of the long polished table, the instigator of this Gathering sat, his countenance already showing his belligerence. When Caranfer spoke, it would become worse, for he was a persuasive speaker. His views might have been dismissed before, but the recent war, despite the grave losses of life, had awakened a different kind of spirit in the Elves. There were around fifty in total here at the Gathering now.

There were those, mostly the older Elves, that disliked the fact that they had retreated into the north, leaving the forest south of the Narrows for East Lórien. What truly angered some about this was that the land in between these two realms had been given to the Beornings and the Woodmen. The Elves were diminishing, not only in Eryn Lasgalen but everywhere, and not all embraced the change with grace. They had grown fond of Middle-Earth and of this land, and their resistance was born in part from fear of a slow, inexorable loss.

To too many Elves, Sariel was both symptom and cause of all that had gone wrong since Mirkwood had been renamed Eryn Lasgalen. Despite his dislike of her, Thranduil was fair enough to acknowledge that Sariel's presence was only a smaller issue masking larger and more complex ones. In truth, Thranduil was tired of his authority being defied by Caranfer and his followers. He had been too soft.

'_You are an unjust king,' _he remembered Caranfer saying to him calmly, with no trace of fear. He would not have tolerated such blatant defiance, but this had occurred only a few days before word came of war. Neither Miluirin nor his son had even been present, although Gandalf had spoken to Thranduil privately about it afterward, warning him to keep watch over Caranfer. During the ensuing tumultuous times, Thranduil had not been able to stop the spread of Caranfer's poison. Those few months, though less than half a year, had been enough, especially when combined with the war.

As king, he should have been the first to speak, yet when the last Elf had entered the room, Caranfer stood, ignoring the shock caused by his impropriety.

"She must leave Eryn Lasgalen," he proclaimed, drawing every eye to where Sariel stood. The bluntness of his speech was surprising, but drew a few murmurs of approval. Thranduil was taken aback by the direct disrespect, not because he had not believed Caranfer would go so far, but because he had expected a buildup to the inevitable confrontation between advisor and king. Caranfer was a little too eager for conflict and this could work to Thranduil's advantage.

He glanced at his queen out of habit, seeing his own fury mirrored in the sudden brief ferocity of her expression. Her blue-grey eyes caught his and Thranduil could tell that she had guessed his thoughts through some special intuition. Silently he blessed her, resolving to put things to rights between them again when this was over.

"Lord Caranfer, Sariel is a guest here by my will, and you will do well to be more polite. This Gathering will be a place of discussion, not your own personal stage. Unless you deliberately wish to oppose me?"

"She will leave Eryn Lasgalen," Caranfer retorted cuttingly, eyes gleaming with a single-minded focus. "I insist, Thranduil."

"You _insist_?" Thranduil assessed the Elf before him, wondering what had caused such a change. The lord was usually subtler; Caranfer's diplomacy was one of the qualities that made him such a good advisor and that had entrusted him to the king in the first place. Now Caranfer was like a dog with a bone. Even those who had shown their support of him moments earlier looked more cautious—as well they should, for Thranduil knew Miluirin had noted each one of them.

"You _insist_, Caranfer?" the king repeated, his voice dangerous with the promise of impending retribution. "Is it that you have forgotten who rules here?"

Though a few eyes turned anxiously toward their queen, Miluirin made no move to restrain her husband. Her calmness had turned into something with a subtle edge, and the other Elves looked at her warily. The queen's authority did not inspire fear as Thranduil's could, but her intimidation was of another sort; only fools disregarded the fact that behind her gentle exterior lay a sharp intelligence that she was unafraid to use in service of her husband. Miluirin watched over the court and was not to be crossed.

"That—that _thing_ there is a dagger pointed at the heart of Eryn Lasgalen, and you would seek to invite it closer!"

All eyes turned to Sariel once more, and she stood silently and still beneath their scrutiny, letting all her senses be aware only of Legolas beside her. There was truth in Caranfer's words, or at least a good portion of those present agreed with him, even if they were wise enough not to show their thoughts in light of his fanaticism.

"Sariel is a guest here," Thranduil repeated coldly, "and she has fought as all of you have fought in the war only two months past. It is only because of her actions that Belderon did not return to lead his army himself."

Surprised by Thranduil's unexpected defense of her, Sariel looked up at the royal couple in time to see Miluirin lay her hand on his arm, the simple gesture a clear message to those gathered: _be careful, he will not hold back tonight. _They were all close to the king and influential, else they would not be here. Though Caranfer had his faction, even his followers were still loyal at heart to the throne.

Yet it was clear Caranfer was past both reason and caution. "You are no king, if you would let her stay!" The Elf's eyes were blazing with belief in his own cause and there was nothing more dangerous. "I do this for love of this realm, whose ruin you would bring down upon us, and for what? For the sake of your lovesick son?"

At this, Thranduil stood in one abrupt moment and took a few steps toward Caranfer, face drawn with anger. "You overstep your bounds, Caranfer!"

"Do I?" The Elf-lord held nothing back. "It is you who are no longer fit to rule!"

The words rang throughout the room, echoing through dead silence. Sariel looked at them—how could she not? Caranfer was mad, it was the only explanation for his outright rebellion against the king. He looked regretful, but determined, as if he felt that he had been forced to serious decisions he had not wanted to make. For one moment, Sariel's gaze met his, and some instinct, some startled recognition of the intent behind that gaze, propelled her forward.

Suddenly, everything was happening too fast. She simply reacted, her mind going blank while her feet were already taking her across the room in huge, hasty steps—she rushed toward the king, afraid that she would not be in time...

Legolas was no longer beside her, but ahead of her, and now the frozen statues of the Elves gathered here were coming to life as stunned shock flickered to grim comprehension of what was happening: _their king was being attacked_.

"Ahhh!" The cry of pain was short, suppressed, and came before Sariel even registered that in front of them all, Caranfer had thrown a knife—had thrown it so hard that there was not even the lingering afterimage of gleaming steel in her eyes, though she had almost tracked the movement of the weapon through the air. He was charging across the room too, but so much closer to Thranduil to begin with.

She needed another two paces, but Caranfer had already drawn another deadly dagger—only Legolas was between his father and Caranfer, and then Sariel was _there, _finally! She crossed her arms, loosing the concealed twin knives from their sheaths.

One of Legolas's knives deflected Caranfer's almost mere inches before Sariel's eyes. It did not distract her as the reassuring weight of the knives slid into her palms. Caranfer was too close to the king and she was closing in on his back, almost too close to Caranfer—except being close, right inside his guard, was exactly what she needed.

His dagger flashed, did not clash against Legolas's, but Sariel did not look to see if the weapon had found its intended target. In a smooth, fluid motion, Legolas had grabbed Caranfer so forcefully he was turned halfway around, off balance.

Another breath, and Thranduil brought his fists down against Caranfer's neck with deadly force, and it was enough—the gleam of white skin on an unprotected neck, and Sariel reacted in an instant, her relentless training taking over, crossed blades flashing in a blinding silver arch up and outward with lethal accuracy.

It did not matter than she had not performed the move for more than a year. She did not stop to think. Everything that she had learned, all the time spent in training, had always been towards one goal: to kill. Every move was ultimately designed for quick, clean death.

For a moment Sariel was back in practice and Belderon's voice snarled at her in rage as in her fear of him, she became clumsy. The smooth, efficient maneuver was halted time and time again with awkwardness. She nearly cut herself as she released the metal blades and they fell out from their sheaths on her arms. She was too slow and the cross of the knives in her hands impeded, rather than helped, the violence of the technique. Her movements were wild in her panic.

Again. Again. Belderon would rap it out, her efficiency not enough to satisfy her master. Do it again.

And then she had started practicing on living beings.

She was staring at Caranfer, watching his death in the sudden massive red gush of blood from the criss-cross slashes. Just a little more force and she would have severed his neck. His body went limp and fell heavily, the back of his skull meeting the floor with a sickening crack.

All movement ceased for a heartbeat of horror. The expressions on the few unfamiliar faces Sariel could see reflected pure disbelief—and then chaos broke loose through the room.

Legolas's voice rose above the commotion, commanding them into order by sheer force of will. He was at his father's side, she saw. The knife Caranfer had first thrown had buried itself into Thranduil's right shoulder, but the wound did not seem too serious.

Somehow healers were summoned and Sariel knew someone tried to take her knives, but she clutched them tightly, her grip slippery. The metal blades were covered in red—so where her hands, almost to her elbows. She had backed away immediately after her attack but the spray of blood stained the front of her clothes, the smell of it thick, and familiar. Most of the attention was focused on the king and she stepped further back.

It was Miluirin who, as soon as she checked that her husband was in capable hands, made her way over to Sariel. She was busy listening to Legolas speaking to his father in low, rushed tones. Somehow, though she could hear the words, they did not penetrate her mind.

"Sariel, do you realize what you have done?" Her tone was even and still composed, despite everything, but Sariel see the worry in her grim set of her mouth. The queen's departure from Thranduil's side had attracted a fair share of attention, but Miluirin bent close to her, her hands divesting Sariel of the knives so that they dropped to the floor with sharp metallic sounds.

She looked at the queen in confusion, oddly unable to respond.

"The way this has happened is a mistake and soon someone will realize it. Sariel, I want you to think clearly right now, do you understand? It is important that you show that did no wrong, that you just killed in defense of the king but _only_ for that."

"Did no wrong?" Her lips felt numb and her own voice sounded strange to her ears. How could she have? She had eliminated their threat for them. But every muscle in her body was locking up in dread, telling her that she indeed had crossed some line, had done something unacceptable. "What do you mean, Miluirin?"

The queen was thinking hard. "Listen to me carefully. I want you to come with me to my husband now. First, you must acknowledge him _as the king_, and then Legolas will leave with you. It is all right if you do not understand right now, things can be explained later. But for now, do as I say, Sariel. Come."

Miluirin took Sariel's bloodied hand in hers and they began to walk to Thranduil and Legolas, Sariel trailing the queen like a lost child.

"She murdered him!"

Sariel tensed at the raised voice, and would have whirled around if not for the queen's sudden death grip on her hand.

"But she saved the king's life," someone else retorted into the silence. Then there were a dozen voices at once, and then even more joining in. People were beginning to talk, their voices overlapping in shock, excitement, fear, and anger.

"Walk on," Miluirin told her. It seemed to take forever to cross the room to where the king sat, a robed healer before him and Legolas by his side. Suddenly she was one person lost in a crowd of more than fifty.

She looked at the king as Miluirin drew her son aside to whisper instructions to him in a low stream of words, too fast for Sariel to decipher. She was not sure what to expect of the injured king, but Thranduil's eyes were still angry in his pale face—and with sudden shock, she realized that some of the anger was directed at her.

Not knowing what else to do, she knelt before him and bowed her head.

"Caranfer was right, she brings only death to us! You have all just seen her true nature!" The declaration seemed terrifyingly loud until Sariel realized it simply seemed that way because the words had such force behind them, and because it was a shrill cry from a female throat and carried over other voices.

She did not understand exactly what was wrong and it was with a mixture of hostility and confusion that she met their shocked eyes. Was she supposed to have stood there as Caranfer attacked the king, intent on killing him?

"Speak carefully, Merilwen," Legolas said with controlled calm, pinpointing the origin of the last accusation. He was at her side now and touched her shoulder, wordlessly urging her to stand, which she did. He raised his voice so that the whole room could hear, making sure that every Elf was listening to him before continuing. "Caranfer was a traitor who attempted regicide. I will not have any wild accusations made right now. There will be time enough later to settle this."

His warm hand clamped around her wrist and without another word or glance at anyone, he led Sariel out of the room. Behind her, she could hear Miluirin's soft but authoritative voice establishing order in lieu of her husband. Sariel followed along as Legolas led them to his own chambers—evidently he no longer cared what others might think—and locked the door behind him.

"What did I do wrong, Legolas?" she blurted out, uneasy but also angry. "He was trying to kill your father, the king! But Thranduil looks at me as if I am at fault and your mother told me I made a mistake."

"Sit down, Sariel, and calm yourself." He left abruptly and returned with a large basin of water. The blood was beginning to dry on her forearms, soaking through her sleeves and the empty knife sheaths alike. Her hands and wrists were already sticky.

Legolas also brought a washcloth, setting it down beside the water on the table. "Clean yourself up," he instructed. "Let no one in but my mother or myself, and do not even respond if anyone else comes. I must go join my father, but I will come back for you, Sariel. We will speak later. I am sorry."

He took out some of his own clothes and gave them to her without really looking at her directly. Then he left, but not before telling her to lock the door again.

* * *

She sat on his bed alone, unable to stop thinking and yet feeling her thoughts constantly scatter like fallen leaves in a gust of wind. Sariel had washed and changed without much ado and now looked down at her hands, where she agitatedly twisted the bracelet around her wrist. She kept turning it and turning it, drawing it tight against her wrist, almost to the point of pain, and watching as the silver links made white impressions on her skin from the pressure.

Everything had happened so fast, so suddenly. In her mind, she imagined the events again, searching her memory for the mistake that she somehow knew she had made, but could not seem to identify. She tried to listen to her conscience and heard nothing—perhaps she truly did lack one. But she had done something wrong and she felt it in the pit of her stomach, in the way her pulse still raced, and in the rigid tension of her muscles. She could not force herself into the calm that usually came after she had successfully carried out one of Belderon's orders.

It was from this thought that understanding shivered down her spine like a trickle of icy water. This had not been an assassination. She had meant to protect, not harm. But she was a killer all the same.

_Your choices are your own_, Miluirin had told her.

The sequence of actions replayed in her mind again: Legolas turning Caranfer around by the force of his motion, Thranduil's blow to the back of Caranfer's neck, her own knives slashing up in a bloody X.

Only now she realized that Legolas had dropped one of his knives in order to grab Caranfer's arm with his hand. He had violently pulled Caranfer towards him. But there had still been a second knife in his other hand—he could have killed the other Elf then, at any point. He was close enough and Caranfer was unbalanced, unprepared.

And Thranduil's shoulder had been injured, but the king had hardly been unarmed, yet he had struck Caranfer with only his bare fists. An incapacitating blow, but not a lethal one.

But Sariel had never had reason to spare a life, had never learned to hold back. She was the only one who had killed Caranfer without hesitation, so _efficiently _that no one could have even tried to stop her.

She was the one who had chosen to kill, when another outcome had been possible. In a single moment, she had claimed authority over his life, as though such authority belonged to her.

_Now you can choose who you want to be_, Legolas had assured her.

She closed her eyes and tears slipped silently down her cheeks.

* * *

Notes: **Please review**! I always read and cherish every single bit of feedback I get. I love hearing your thoughts; it really makes writing less of a lonely endeavor. Thank you – you guys are wonderful.

P.S. You may be wondering about the title of this chapter. Yes, it's deliberately mismatched with the actual content, which actually explains a lot if you think about it.

_Finalized December 2010 _


	27. Crossroads

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

**Chapter 27: Crossroads**

By the time Legolas returned to his room, Sariel had herself under control—albeit the kind of control that came in the aftermath of shock. She had lost track of how much time had passed while he had been away, and while she knew her arm had completely healed, it now was aching fiercely where the bone had once been broken. Since she had a high tolerance for pain, the physical discomfort proved more of a welcome distraction from her thoughts.

As soon as he entered the room, Legolas headed straight for where she was sitting on his bed. He cursed softly when he saw how she was cradling her arm tightly against her stomach. "Were you hurt?"

"N-no," she stammered quickly in reply. After so much quiet, the intensity of his presence somehow unnerved her. "Is the—is your father all right?"

Legolas grimaced. "He will be, although the wound was serious. He is furious with himself for not realizing that Caranfer was desperate enough to go so far. My mother and I have already set up trusted interrogation groups which will question all those who are associated with him."

She had not even thought so far ahead. "Do you think there are others?"

"No, we are fairly certain that he was acting alone." He took a seat besides her, stress deepening the shadows around his eyes. "Caranfer likely left nothing behind as his legacy but a complicated mess."

He had not accused her yet, but neither had he actually looked at her. They sat in silence until she could not stand it.

"I killed him," she said. Once she started, she could not seem to stop. "I thought at first it was the right thing to do. He was trying to kill the king but somehow I am guilty for stopping him, so I was angry and confused. I thought that I had only done what was necessary…but that is not true, is it?"

Without waiting for a reply, she rose to her feet, arms crossed against her chest and facing away from him. "Maybe she was right—the one who said that this is my true nature."

"Sariel—"

"Everything that I am, Legolas, is only what Belderon made me into, and all he wanted was for me to kill."

"_No_." He said it so vehemently, she had no choice but to stop and turn around to look at him. "You may have saved my father's life, Sariel, and regardless of his feelings on the matter, he acknowledges that. Caranfer would have been sentenced to execution for his actions, even had you not done what you did."

Sariel stared at him. "You cannot even say it, can you?"

Legolas opened his mouth to protest, but the words were left unsaid. It was true. Watching her skillfully end Caranfer's life before a room full of witnesses—before his own eyes—forced him to face things that he believed he had already accepted. She _had _been an assassin. He had never even witnessed her at her worst.

"I killed him," she said, as if testing out the depth of her remorse. "I killed him because I did not stop to think, even for a moment, that it could have gone any other way. I killed him because—"

He stepped in close, hands helplessly clenched at his sides, able to reach out only with his words. "Stop this, Sariel. Do not make yourself into something worse than you really are."

"—I am a killer," she finished relentlessly. It was as if she was waiting for the condemnation she felt she deserved.

"And_ so am I_," Legolas said, so sharply that for some reason, or no reason at all, her eyes suddenly glazed with tears. "We all react as best as we can, and sometimes people die when they could have otherwise lived."

In the fleeting halt to his words, she locked gazes with him, suddenly wondering what instantaneous decisions he had made that now made him look older, wiser, and infinitely wearier. She had seen grief in his eyes and guilt before; she knew that inevitably, Elves had died under his command during the war, but she had never realized that he, too, struggled not to dwell on the mistakes he had made in the past.

The look he gave her was so intense that she felt ashamed for letting her doubts overwhelm her. She had thrown the words in his face as though they would give him cause to push her away, but he would not let this come between them. How could he understand her so well? He believed in her even when she did not believe in herself. She was the one who could not meet his eyes now, and she dropped her gaze.

"Do not confuse reaction with actual _choice_, Sariel. True volition is about the act of willing, of a decision made by the will." His voice dropped into a low murmur and he moved to stand so close to her that she could feel the warmth emanating from him.

"And if you do not know who you are or fear who you used to be," Legolas continued even more softly, "then trust me. I know who you are, what you are…and what you are not."

Despite all her control, her shoulders rounded now as she turned her face away, two lone tears spilling out of her eyes. He reached out to wipe them away, knowing from the redness of her eyes that she had cried earlier too, when she had been alone. She was faster than he was, swiping away the liquid trails on her cheeks with her fingers, mouth set in a resolute, unhappy line.

He caught her cold hand tightly in his and she tilted her chin slightly up, eyes fixed somewhere on the ceiling above in a gesture he recognized—she was still on the verge of tears and was trying not to cry. She swallowed hard but when she finally spoke said his name, her voice was still choked. He could not help himself when he saw her struggling so hard. He closed the last distance between them, his arms pulling her flush against him and instinctively holding her tight.

"Shhh," he soothed, his hand brushing her hair back as she accepted his embrace and rested her head against his chest. The top of her head was tucked just under his chin in a position that was almost familiar by now, but nevertheless still could cause a special warmth to bloom somewhere inside of him. How was it that she could make him feel both strong and helpless at the same time? "I want to protect you, but you make it so hard sometimes."

"I am not welcome here," she said dully. "I know that already. You do not have to try to hide it from me."

His arms briefly tightened around her before he forced himself to relax, glad that she could not see his expression at the moment. "Sariel, give them some time to accept you. Your team did eventually, did they not? Even Simbelmynë believed in you. People fear what they do not understand but most of them mean well, in the end."

She shifted restlessly in his arms and he reluctantly let her go. Only hours ago she had taken the life of an Elf, but it seemed like years ago. She could not look at her past and could not imagine a future, but Caranfer's death had also robbed her of any ability to simply live in the present.

"Maybe time will not change this, Legolas," she quietly suggested, admitting to one of her greatest fears. "The only thing I can do is leave. I do not belong here. Perhaps the truth is, I do not belong anywhere."

What could he even say to that? She was willing to fight for everyone but herself. She could do anything to save others, but she did not think she was worthy of saving. She was so misguided sometimes, not truly understanding that when she hurt herself, she was hurting the ones who loved her. He closed his eyes, finding himself unable to look at her, or else he would give in and do something rash in trying to convince her that whatever she faced, he would face it with her.

"Stay with me, Sariel." He tried to put everything he was feeling into those few words. "Do not run away again. Please."

It was becoming far too painful to continue this conversation, so she was silent. He could read her thoughts in her face, though, and knew that she still thought it would be better for him if she left.

"You know how much I need you. I promise, Sariel, there will be a way. In time, we will find a way together."

* * *

He believed in her, so she had to at least try to believe in herself. This was what Sariel thought over the next few days, when life inevitably resumed after the unexpected shock of Caranfer's actions. Everywhere she went, it was as if an unflattering spotlight followed her around constantly. Conversations hushed, people openly turned to stare at her, and there was more than one nervous laugh accompanying her entrance into a room. While she had become used to hostile stares to some extent, this was a different level altogether.

Sariel had at least been able to pass unnoticed through the halls before, but now her coloring, fairly rare in this woodland realm, made that almost impossible. Although a few Elves approached her in a seemingly sympathetic manner, she had long since realized that she was not astute enough in reading strangers' intentions to decide whether they were genuinely friendly or otherwise. Determined not to add to the problems she had already caused, Sariel could only try to avoid nearly everyone.

Even the hardest heart would have found the unceasing attention difficult after a few days, and though Sariel tried her best not to care, it was important to her to be accepted. In fact, the situation she found herself in made her so heartsick that she could not even bring herself to speak about it to any of those who might have been willing to listen: Lianderthral, Eros, and even Ithildin, who had made a point of seeking her out to let her know that she had his support. Then there was the queen and, of course, Legolas—the real reason why, though Sariel naturally wanted to be accepted, the issue of acceptance had been elevated to terribly important proportions in her mind.

Seeking to find some sort of escape from the stifling pressure of everyone's awareness of her, she spent as little time as she could within the palace. She had seen neither Miluirin nor Thranduil since that day, but could not decide whether the lack of an audience with her, private or otherwise, was a good or bad sign. She could have retreated to the secret glade, but she was torn between wanting to see Legolas and fearing what would happen if she did.

It was early morning when she slipped out of her rooms again, the sky still a dark grey with just the faintest light to hint at the coming dawn. She headed deep into the forest, her surroundings comforting and familiar to her after so many months spent defending these woods as if they were truly her home. Even in late summer, the air was cool and the loam underfoot damp with dew. She ran swiftly and lightly toward the oldest part of the forest, the trees there ancient and enormous in girth, majestic with their gleaming, dark summer leaves.

A little out of breath from her exertions, Sariel finally stopped and let herself lean against a white oak. The rough ash-colored bark beneath her hand seemed to put things in perspective, as did the towering branches above her head and the faint light filtering down through countless leaves. A pair of squirrels scampered up a moss-covered tree not far away, engaged in some kind of game of tag. In the midst of such a thriving wilderness, her anxiety and cares of the past few days seemed foolish.

There had been several points in her life when she thought things could not become worse. The beauty of having experienced such depths of grief and despair was that she could rationally look at her situation now and tell herself that this was not one of those points. She would still have to face the consequences of her execution of Caranfer and she had spent hours wondering what kind of life he had lived, that she had so easily taken. Still, as wrong as her actions had been, they had also been right, too.

She had just begun to climb up a tree when a rustle of leaves above her made Sariel suddenly realize that she was not alone. Every instinct told her no mere animal was up in the tree, somewhere in the dense foliage. Someone had followed her, after all—someone who had approached her while hiding high enough in the canopy of trees that she had not noticed until now.

Before she had time to panic, a large acorn dropped down beside her, narrowly missing her head and startling a gasp out of her. She looked up, seeing a familiar face appear through the spreading branches of the oak, and smiled wryly at her alarm.

"Come up," Legolas invited. He lithely swung down by a couple of branches and a coil of rope dropped to the ground beside her with a soft thump.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. "Or rather, up there?"

"I followed you," he admitted easily, voice drifting down, tinged with amusement. "I wanted to see how long it would take before you noticed you were being trailed."

A little embarrassed, Sariel climbed up easily enough with the aid of his rope and found him waiting for her on one of the broad lower branches. "You must have been distracted. You never even noticed until I made you notice."

"You scared me half to death with that acorn," Sariel complained as she continued to climb higher. She saw him grinning up at her for a second before he started to give chase, intent on finding out who was the better tree climber. Within a few minutes, he had somehow ended up above her and was resting in the nook created by a branch and the trunk of the tree. He was straddling the branch and his legs dangled down, just above her head while she struggled to find a branch that was sturdy enough to hold her weight.

Taking pity on her, he shifted so he could lean down and offer her an outstretched hand. Disdainful, Sariel finally managed to find an appropriate place, which put her just a hair higher than Legolas. The last swing had required some effort and the hood she had taken to wearing in order to cover her hair fell back. The branch beneath her was strong, and she delighted in the view: it was a different world up here.

Legolas abandoned his perch in favor of hers and ended up beside her. She did not object when he put his hands on her shoulders and started massaging her tense muscles with skilled fingers. Just like that, the bond between them seemed to fall into place again, and she could care less what anyone else thought or whether she had any place among them. It could not have been easy for him either, but he had followed her anyway. He knew, somehow, that even when she was avoiding him, she fought an opposite urge that was just as strong. Even when she pushed him away, she secretly hoped that he would persuade her by the strength of his arms around her.

They were silent for a long time as they watched the sun's progress, bringing increasing light and color to the heavens. The transformation around them was breathtaking as the light grey sky became streaked with lovely watercolors. The shadows and light that were the harbingers of a new day seemed to her to be one of the few beautiful things in the world that was truly immortal. It was a loveliness that was more gorgeous for its evanescent nature and for the fact of its artless constant change, so dependent on time. Minute by minute, the sky transformed, as did the world, until the sunrise was over and day came again.

Yet such a miracle happened every single day, as it did now. The sun rose and became just barely visible before its warmth shown down on the forest canopy and its life-giving light filtered through the glossy leaves. There was something special in sharing such a moment together, as if the entire world were turning over a page in its book, like the artist beginning again on a blank canvas, or like the writer putting down the first few words on crisp, blank parchment.

"_Aurë entuluva_," Legolas said, with a reverence that she understood perfectly, and she echoed him. The words were an emblem of a hope that would never fade, as long as the world still existed. _Day shall come again_.

He had to leave not soon afterward, called back by responsibilities that she was just beginning to fully appreciate. This, too, was a side of him, one that that made him who he was, the leader of his people. He could be playful and teasing, or serious and calm. He could command thousands of Elves or be no more than a simple archer, steadfast and courageous in the quest to destroy an object of evil.

He was in so many ways better than her. Did she really have the right to lay claim to a prince in so much more than title and name? Perhaps she admired him first before she loved him, but she was only now realizing that love was found neither in the first instant of meeting nor the last farewell of parting, but in all the other moments in between.

The sunlight was warm on her skin and Sariel closed her eyes, wondering what it was that the coming days would bring.

* * *

Thranduil would be aggrieved by the disappearance of his wayward son, Legolas knew perfectly well, but he still did not immediately return to his father. There was another task that needed to be done first and he could no longer hold off on it—not when the thought was never far from his mind, day and night. There was an artist of much fame in Eryn Lasgalen that Legolas needed to seek out now. Yet unlike Aurë, this artist used sheets of precious metal in place of canvases, and he was a smith rather than a painter.

Legolas was pleasantly surprised to find Berylan working alone when he arrived, instead of with one of his three or four apprentices. He stood by the side of the forge, careful to stay away from the sparks, and waited patiently as the smith finished the last touches on his latest work, a thing of stunning beauty. In other times, this master artisan would be creating things more for the home than for the battlefield, but most likely he had been commissioned. He was as known for his jewelry as his weapons, though it was the latter that he had in his grasp now. The sword had a pommel of carnelian with an elegant fillet of silver binding its circumference.

"'But for my part I will risk no hurt to this thing: of all the works of Sauron, the most fair. It is precious to me, though I buy it with great pain.'" Berylan uttered the words in a hoarse voice as he dipped the pommel of the sword in water. Of course, he had noted Legolas's presence as soon as he had arrived.

Looking amused at the confusion in his prince's eyes, Berylan said only, "Isildur's words. Very appropriate, do you not think?"

Legolas nodded, unsurprised at the perceptiveness of the normally stoic Elf. To be a great artist, one must see clearly into the heart in order to cast its reflection. The master smith could probably guess at the reason for this unexpected visit.

"'Precious to me, though I buy it with great pain,'" he murmured again, and though he had not been able to understand before, he now knew how Isildur could value the fell ring, drawn to its beauty despite all else. Isildur had fallen into temptation and the world had suffered for it. Berylan had chosen a quote that illustrated a dark history, the words themselves a warning. How could Legolas be sure that this decision now would not only hurt himself and others later?

"You perhaps understand it better than others," Berylan said as he dried the hilt of the sword and handed it to Legolas, who gave it a few experimental swings. Unsurprisingly, it was perfectly balanced.

"Who is this for?" asked Legolas inquisitively. "It will serve him well."

Berylan's expression became unexpectedly grim, his brow furrowing in some combination of anger and disgust. "It was ordered by my lord Caranfer. The knife that struck the king was one that I created for him, too. A nine inch blade, basic hilt. Purely functional, without any finishing."

Legolas handed the sword back silently and watched as Berylan wrapped it carefully, setting it aside. The smith clasped his hands together in front of him, regarding the younger Elf with a thoughtful smile that suggested he already knew the answer to the question he asked. "What is it you want of me today, my prince?"

"I need something very special to be made," Legolas began, "but first, I will have your discretion, I trust?"

Despite his casual air, his words had an underlying steel that Berylan would have been a fool to ignore. The Elven smith laughed, though not unkindly. "You are hardly the first to make such a request of me. Show me what it is you wish me to make."

Legolas gave him a thin tube full of papers. He watched silently and waited for the speculation as Berylan unrolled them and took his time in perusing the delicately sketched designs. Minutes passed and the master jeweler made no comment, wholly engrossed in the art of the jewelry rather than any thoughts about for whom the jewelry was intended.

"I have a few suggestions," he said at last, looked at Legolas questioningly, and on seeing a consenting nod, took out a pencil. "Here, you see? Like this." He made some nondescript alterations that still managed to transform the designs from merely pleasing to the eye to hauntingly beautiful. The abstract patterns to be carved were somehow uniquely perfect for Sariel, though Legolas had not mentioned her name.

"No setting? A sapphire, to match, or perhaps a diamond reflecting the light of Erendil?"

"Not for these, no." He wanted to keep the design simple. If Berylan's works were good, as Legolas was sure they would be, he would come back here. If—no, it was far too early to be thinking such things.

"Do you need the size?" Legolas finally remembered to ask, but was swiftly deterred by Berylan's gesture. He did not ask how the Elf had already known the information, but he was a little curious. As long as it turned out well, though, he would forego asking, since he was not entirely sure he wanted to know, anyway.

"One more thing," he added. "I would like you to design a complement, so that the two are paired. Not perfectly identical, but…you know what it is I speak of."

Berylan nodded, having expected the request. "It will be ready in two weeks. It can be completed sooner, but not if you value secrecy above speed, as I think you do."

"Certainly," Legolas agreed. "I want no word of this to reach my father, you understand."

"I will have been the only one to see it," the smith assured him, but his solemn manner had faded a little and he smiled at Legolas. "May I offer my congratulations?"

"It is early yet for that," Legolas said with a lightness he did not quite feel. He clasped Berylan's hand in his for a moment, letting the gesture show his gratitude. Even though the smith was almost a stranger, his approval somehow meant all the more because of it. With this spark of hope from unexpected quarters, Legolas left, his heart filled with resolve and joy as he thought of the two rings being forged even now.

* * *

Many attended Caranfer's final burial, but the surprising thing was that it took place completely peacefully. Legolas stood behind where Thranduil sat, one hand resting on his father's shoulder, and watched the proceedings without speaking. He was only glad that no one had suggested that Sariel should be present. The mood was grim and unsettled enough without her attendance stirring up more conflicts.

Most Elves that had gathered for the burial were as somber as the dark colors they had chosen to wear, but expressions here and there suggested that some had gathered less to pay their respects than to see through the end of a traitor. Indeed, some had argued whether Caranfer should be given such dignity in his death at all. The injury their king had sustained from his attack served as a potent reminder of Caranfer's treason.

If Thranduil had not been hurt, perhaps some might have spoken more aggressively about the justice of Sariel's actions, too. As it was, such a visible sign of Caranfer's attempted regicide quelled any outcry, for there was no denying that it was Caranfer who had made the first treacherous move. Even so, the king himself both officially granted Sariel amnesty for Caranfer's death and decreed that the former royal advisor would receive full honors, though Legolas had protested bitterly at this.

"He might have taken your life," he had said angrily to Thranduil two days ago, pacing in front of the throne. The room was silent, deserted save for father and son. "I saw that Sariel was reacting to something and was able to reach you just as Caranfer did. It was through sheer luck that he did not succeed in what he tried to do. And yet—and yet you still blame Sariel, though she acted out of loyalty to you."

"I do not blame her for anything," Thranduil said sharply. "My decision has nothing to do with her. You forget yourself, Legolas, and what it means to rule this realm. This is why you should not have abandoned your home so readily, though I suppose I only encouraged your wanderlust when I sent you to Imladris and you joined the quest to destroy the Ring."

"Then why?" Legolas spread his arms apart, frustration clear in his blue eyes. "Why do this all for someone who betrayed you and committed treason against Eryn Lasgalen?"

"He was once great among us, Legolas," Thranduil answered heavily. "Caranfer served on my council for hundreds of years and it was only recently that he changed, turning against me. I only regret that I mishandled the situation until he felt that he had to act against me. I can understand his reasoning, wrong as it was. He was guided by his belief that he was helping his people, saving them. He never intended otherwise."

"He was mad," Legolas retorted, still incensed. "Whatever his intentions, his actions are unforgiveable."

Thranduil shook his head in negation. "You did not know him as I did, Legolas. Something went awry in his thoughts and twisted his soul, but he was loyal in his way to the people he had helped watch over. We will remember him for what he was, rather than what he became. _You_ of all people should agree that nothing is so black and white when it comes to the justice."

There was nothing Legolas could have said to that, and his father knew it. He had looked down, feeling the sting of his father's rebuke, but also knowing he deserved it. He had never been quite the son that Thranduil might have wished for, but he still admired his father. It was that paradox that drove him to leave Eryn Lasgalen, for his father's quiet disapproval had hurt even when he had been a child.

Thranduil had looked at his son with eyes that betrayed the weariness of his age that his body did not. The treachery of one that he had viewed as a worthy opponent and advisor, if not always a friend, had hurt him deeply. Among the Elves, such betrayal was rare, for to such wise and discerning eyes, hearts could often be read with a simple glance. Yet there remained those whose hearts were a little darker, a little more secretive, for not even among the Elves could absolute purity be found.

Now, as Caranfer's body returned to the earth, there were no speeches for him, no remembrances. The burial itself was quick and took place in near silence. Thranduil finally stood to offer a few words to the watchers. They were simple.

"He once served well as a lord of his people and as an advisor to his king. Today we will honor Caranfer, not for his betrayal, but for his loyalty."

* * *

In the following few days, as summer progressed toward to fall, life almost returned to normal. It seemed as if most wanted to forget Caranfer's attempt on the life of the king, and the reasons behind it as quickly as possible. That was not to say that the event had completely blown over, but most of the Elves that had been present at the Gathering sought to put things behind them. The king and especially the queen seemed to encourage this, for Miluirin arranged for festivities in celebration of the return of peace to Eryn Lasgalen and in commemoration of the sacrifice it had taken.

Sariel could not refuse to attend without publicly snubbing the king and worse yet, disappointing Miluirin. As one of the few remaining companions who had come from Nenuial to warn Thranduil of Belderon's approaching army, Sariel was ostensibly one of the honored guests. Privately, she thought it was perverse of Thranduil to pretend that she had not practically brought the war to Eryn Lasgalen. The king seemed well-intentioned, however, and it was fitting to also pay tribute for those who had fallen during the war defending their home. It was only strange that he had chosen this particular time, though of course it would have been insensitive to hold any sort of festivity too soon after the end of the war, when the Elves were still dealing with grief.

The date was set to match the changing of the seasons: the first day of the first month of autumn. Sariel had never liked the end of summer, since it had always seemed to her to be a sad time. Yet she remembered that she had left Belderon a year ago during this time, when the leaves had not yet begun to fall but summer had lost its full radiance, ripening to the fruitful splendor of fall. It seemed as if she had lived more so in this one year of her life than in all the rest combined, when her days had passed from one deadly assignment to another, monotonous and without color.

Sariel had never seen the Elves at celebration, nor understood the flurry of activity that accompanied such an event. The Elves' wholehearted fervor in celebrating their victory, rather than mourning what had been lost, seemed odd at first. It was as if they were determined, almost frantic, to exalt all the things that made life so precious. The deep belief that it was a gift to be simply _alive _gradually swept over the Elves as a whole, affecting even Sariel. It reaffirmed her appreciation for the simple joys she held dear, and she began to understand why the royal couple had chosen to use festivity to commemorate those who had died for the sake of peace. The loving and painstaking preparations, stretching for days, brought the Elves back together and renewed bonds that had been broken during the grimmer times.

On the night of the commemoration, she entered the great hall with Lianderthral, Gimli, and Legolas, and was astounded by the cheering that filled the huge audience chamber. Spirits were high, no doubt in part due to the great quantities of wine and food, and in the search for gaiety the Elves seemed to be willing to overlook her presence alongside their heroic trio. It was not a time for feelings of antipathy, and the difference was frankly remarkable, all the more so because the fallout from her killing of Caranfer had not really subsided.

"They are not all so unfriendly as you would think," Lianderthral told her, noticing her reaction—she was not sure whether to be uneasy or pleased by the fickle and likely temporary reversal in their attitudes toward her. Here was the acceptance she craved, but could she trust it? "There is no reason why you should not enjoy yourself tonight. The night is young, and there will be music and poetry, dancing and much more."

The lights were bright and the voices merry, and she silently decided to follow Lianderthral's advice, feeling somewhat overwhelmed. There were so many Elves, all gathered together here. Dancing gracefully, they were like bright flames swirling in ever-changing patterns, ethereal and eternal. Occasionally hair would be flung out in a silken halo as some handsome Elf spun his lady, and then delicately pointed ears would be revealed, marking all as more than mortal.

"Sit besides me, Sariel," Legolas requested. She spared a quick glance at Lianderthral, but the other Elf seemed unbothered, so she let herself be pulled into a seat. She even accepted the claret wine that Gimli passed to her from across the table. The Dwarf was leaving on the morrow, but seemed plenty pleased that he had prolonged his stay due to Legolas's persuasion—at least he would have a fine sendoff.

"It's been long since my tongue has tasted such wonders," Gimli said with a laugh, and looking at the array of delicacies, Sariel realized it was true. They had been eating nothing so fine for the past year. Surprising the Dwarf with a rare smile, she nodded and helped herself to some of the treats.

It was not long before Lianderthral's prediction came true and talented musicians were called on to provide music for a dance. The haunting notes of the flute that the Elves danced to had never seemed so bittersweet, or the voices of the Elves so melodious. As the night wore on, everyone only seemed more alive as barriers were erased and guards let down.

"I always believed the only ones that could throw a celebration like this were the Dwarves," Gimli shouted to her at one point from across the table, his voice nearly lost in the music and sheer volume of sound as people laughed and conversed around them. "Whoever knew they had such Elvish festivity in those dour souls?"

Sariel could only nod wordlessly in agreement, watching the breaking and reforming pattern of moving bodies. She turned around to find Legolas looking at her, the hint of a smile on his lips.

"Welcome to my home," he said with clear amusement at her wonder. He grabbed her hand and rose to his feet as one song ended, pulling her up as well.

"What are you doing?" she whispered in alarm as she stood, aware that they had caught the interest of more than a few watchers. He had not danced with anyone yet and the disappointment among the ladies hoping to be asked was palpable.

Legolas made a show of gallantly kissing her hand, every inch the gallant prince. "What do you think? Will you honor me with this dance, my lady Sariel?"

Her protest was lost as he pulled her into the throng with a wicked grin on his face, not giving her a chance to reply. Having guessed that she had never learned the steps before, he proceeded to instruct and guide her, having chosen a simpler dance that she could quickly learn.

Some time passed before she returned to her seat after that, breathless but exhilarated, cheeks flushed from some combination of wine, embarrassment, and exertion. She half expected Legolas to find another partner—some of the glances directed toward her had been positively lethal in their envy—but he stayed with her.

Sariel only felt the first ominous trickle of apprehension when Thranduil stood up and called for toasts, including one for her. It seemed implausible that he would be so accepting of her when he clearly had disliked her from the beginning, and the incident with Caranfer had practically sealed his opinion of her. During the momentary lull after a particularly rousing singing competition, when everyone was already a little tired, the king stood up again and Sariel realized that several packages had been brought to the table before him. The gifts lay stacked before him, ready for him to give out.

Many of the gifts were truly generous, but she watched nervously as they were given out, unsure of whether Thranduil would include one for her, or skip over her altogether. From what she could tell, the queen had not helped to arrange this part, so she could not count on anything because of Miluirin's favor. Her name was called, though, after all the others had gone. It was suddenly quieter in the great hall and Legolas's hand tightened on hers a fraction, as if he, too, were concerned.

"I wish to make the Lady Sariel a gift," Thranduil said, the words no more than a slight variation in how he had presented the gifts to others. Sariel glanced at him covertly, but could not detect any sign of sarcasm in his use of a title for her. He held something in his hands but she was not looking there. Instead, Sariel's attention had been caught by the briefly troubled expression on Miluirin's face—one that wiped away any smile she might have tried to summon to her face for the watching audience.

She had no choice but to step forward anyway. The king pressed a soft cloth bundle into her hands, and as he had with the others, waited for her to unwrap her gift.

It was a cloth bag with a drawstring, and it took only a moment. Sariel put her hand into the bag and withdrew something that was impossibly soft. Black velvet glistened and she held up the rich fabric, letting it unfurl to reveal itself as a black dress. The design was nothing lavish or extravagant—there was only a bit of silver embroidery at the neck and on the flowing sleeves in the design of leaves. Though the color was rather formal, the dress bespoke quality with its simple but elegant cut.

It was a truly lovely gift, Sariel thought when she saw it, and was a little ashamed of herself for thinking so badly of Legolas's father. But when she looked up, she again saw satisfaction in Thranduil's eyes and angry regret in Miluirin's. She looked more closely at the gown that she held and finally understood, just as Thranduil spoke again.

"I would like to see you wear this, child," he said calmly. "Please do us the honor of changing into this gift for you."

She looked up at him in shock before remembering that there were still others watching. It was a struggle to school her face from showing any emotion. She looked at Miluirin sitting next to him and then at some of the lords, and mutely wondered who had known of this idea. There was no hatred or scorn in Thranduil's eyes, only a resolute, almost regretful patience. It was as if he were telling her not to fight, for it was a battle that could not be won.

Somehow she found her voice and forced out some reply before the watchers had realized the lapse. "Thank you. I shall return soon." It was all she could choke out, although even to her own ears she sounded rude.

She fled.

The way through the palace was a blur, but somehow she found herself away from the watching crowd and in the privacy of her own room. Numbly, Sariel began to strip, changing into the dress with jerky, uncontrolled motions. Her back felt exposed, her skin chilled. The food that she had eaten sat in a hard lump at the bottom of her stomach and she was angry at herself for having been fooled into thinking that one evening with the Elves meant that she had finally been accepted.

She sat on her bed when she was done and briefly considered leaving her hair down. It was thick and long enough, but even that would be only a temporary relief. It would be cowardly and she refused to let Thranduil cow her. She would accept this and bear the pressure with grace, no matter what happened.

Sariel had begun to pin her hair up when a knock on the door startled her so much that she dropped the clasp that she was weaving into her hair. She would not be able to bear it if it were Legolas but she unlocked the door before she had really thought about it.

"May I come in, Sariel?"

She recognized the muffled voice on the other side of the door; it was the queen. Some of her panic faded, but Sariel did not reply.

"I did not expect him to do this, child. Please, you must know that he only wants the best for Legolas. They have not always been in accord and Legolas is so often driven to leave…" Miluirin stumbled here, having said more than she wished. It was bitter to her, that her only surviving child chose to stay away from his home—because here in Mirkwood he had to bear the responsibility of being who he was, and because her husband was never quite satisfied, could never quite fully accept his own son.

But it was this inadvertent admission that convinced Sariel to finally open the door. "I understand. You need not explain."

The queen still had not _seen_, though she had known. But simply knowing about it, and having heard an account of Sariel's past, was quite different from actually seeing the visible reminders of what she had done in the past.

Silently Sariel walked with the queen back to where they were all waiting, her absence longer than expected. Just as they entered the room, Miluirin took Sariel's cold hands in her own and gave a comforting squeeze.

"I am so sorry," she said helplessly. "Be brave, my dear. You are beautiful."

Indeed, there were murmurs of appreciation as Miluirin returned to her seat next to Thranduil and Sariel was left to enter the room alone. The dress fit her perfectly and emphasized her otherwise unembellished beauty. The velvet brought out the luster of her equally dark hair, her skin was a flawless alabaster against the black, and her eyes provided startling contrast, glowing a dark, rich sapphire. There was nothing wrong; indeed, it would have been the perfect gift, if not for the one thing.

As she walked to the front of the hall, the voices quickly hushed.

Sariel knelt in front of Thranduil, the dress pooling around her in shimmering darkness, creating the pretty picture of supplicant and king.

But there was no back to the dress, no fabric down to the waist. The gasps she heard were not in appreciation of her or the dress, but out of pity and disgust. The mass of scar tissue had not been so bad before Belderon had deliberately reopened the wounds, but now just one glance at her back called to mind her sins. Having been an assassin had left no visible difference on her, except for this. The raised welts, the puckered skin on her back—all of her scars were displayed, as if the dress had been made just for the purpose of framing this particular nightmare. Perhaps it had been.

It was Thranduil's way to remind everyone, especially his own son, of what she was. Of the darkness in her past and of the fact that an assassin, bearing scars from a tortuous whipping in Lórien, simply did not belong here. It would never be more evident that she had no place among the glittering throng. It was also a brutal reminder to Sariel herself that she did not belong with the _prince_ who would lead this society in which she had been so clearly denied entry.

"Thank you," Sariel said to the king with quiet dignity, lightheaded enough that when she rose to her feet, she had to concentrate on simply standing. She must have added appropriate remarks after that, but she could not even remember what she said. In the end, she could only repeat her thanks faintly, her voice unfamiliar to herself.

She did not dare look toward Legolas, but he was looking at her—his eyes an angry, brilliant blue. Vaguely, she hoped that this would not destroy whatever tentative peace he had reached with his father. If she could just remain calm and detached enough, then it was almost like she could pretend this was not happening.

The walk out of the room seemed to take even longer than before and was at least twice as silent. If anyone had missed the sight of her discolored skin the first time, they could hardly have missed witnessing her humiliation now. Even when the doors of the hall closed behind her, Sariel continued her slow pace, willing herself not to break into a run.

She was trembling when she finally reached the sanctuary of her chamber. Even away from all others, she still felt that alien sensation of being watched by hundreds of judging eyes. A hand touched her arm and she whirled around, so distraught that she did not even seek to defend herself.

It was Lianderthral, and that face, so similar to another's, so filled with concern, completely undid her.

"Sariel—" he reached out to her and she stumbled back until she met the door behind her.

"I am sorry," she choked out. "I know you mean well, but… Please leave me be." Her hand fumbled for the doorknob and with relief, she grasped it and turned, slipping into the dark room and closing the door behind her before she leaned back against it, sliding down to sit on the floor.

On the other side, she heard silence, and then finally soft footsteps moving away.

* * *

Heedless of the watchfulness of the Elves who were expecting more scandal, Legolas abruptly half rose from his seat, only to be stopped by Eros. He jerked his arm out of her grip in one violent motion, furious that her jealousy was manifesting itself now, of all times. Ignoring the threat of his temper, Eros caught his wrist again in her hand, trying to force him to stay down.

"Eros," he hissed in a furious whisper. It was the expression her face that stopped him—a mix of pity, anger mirroring his own, and sincerity.

"Do not forget where you are, Legolas," she said for his ears only.

"I care not," he retorted, but the death glare she fixed on him had the effect she wanted, and he hesitated.

"Do you think she will thank you for your fury?" she said fiercely. "Let her salvage that much of her pride, at least. The night is almost over and it will not be long before we are dispersed.."

"My father—" he began, but Eros cut him off.

"Settle this with him in private, Legolas." The expression on her face left no room for doubt in his mind that she was as angry about Thranduil's manipulations as he was.

"Then he will think that he has won." He was torn between going after Sariel and confronting his father. Conscious now of the eyes on him but hardly caring, Legolas stood anyway, his gaze meeting his father's across the room, though he spoke to Eros. "This is only a game to him."

"Legolas—"

But it was too late. He was already cutting through the crowd, headed straight for where the royal couple sat, Miluirin giving her husband a look of scathing fury even in front of witnesses.

"Not here," Thranduil said calmly when Legolas was within arm's reach.

"Then come with me," his son challenged, "unless you wish an audience for this. I think they have served your purpose already, have they not?"

The king sipped from his goblet of wine before setting it down and rising. Miluirin was about to follow but he placed a restraining hand on her arm that she shook off with derision. "No, only one of us is needed for this. Ensure that everything else will run its course smoothly, my queen."

"The prince that I married so long ago would never have done something so cruel," the queen said quietly, with ice in her voice. "Did I truly pledge my life to this stranger before me?"

But their quarrel would come later, for it was Legolas's anger that Thranduil now faced. Miluirin stayed, while father and son left together. They were scarcely outside of the great hall when Thranduil stopped, turning to his sole surviving child. In face of such anger, he spoke with rationality.

"You do not belong with her, Legolas. She will never be accepted here."

"No, _you _have tried your best to ensure that!" Unable to even look at his father, Legolas paced further down the hall before whirling around to confront Thranduil. "She saved your life! Is this how you repay her?"

Thranduil shook his head. "Nothing she does now changes what she has done in the past, Legolas. How could you have chosen her?"

Something in his underlying tone, or in the words that went unspoken, stopped Legolas dead in his tracks. He looked at his father in disbelief. "This was not really about Sariel, was it? You regret using her, but you already know she would leave, if she thought it would be better for me. But you also know that my choice will _never _be for her to go. All this, all along—you humiliated her, and to prove what? To convince me that she is better off without me?"

"Is she not, Legolas?" Thanduil did not even deny it. "You have a duty to your people. You cannot live your life selfishly, forgetting that you are a prince among the Elves, as if you could escape the burden of responsibility forever."

It was the hint of regret and pity in his gaze that made his son all the more furious. What right had he to look as though his humiliation of another was a necessary task he had taken upon himself?

"Am I to exist only to serve others then?" Legolas retorted, not bothering to check his rage. "Is it my destiny to live life selflessly, without love, denied of the choice given to any Elf?"

"Our people need a leader," was his father's reserved reply. Legolas cursed, having heard the words too many times since childhood.

"They follow _you_, father." His voice was bitter.

Thranduil turned to him and studied him with dark, thoughtful eyes. "They have followed me long, but my reign has been shadowed by war. Middle-Earth is moving into a new era, Legolas, can you deny what you feel already? I see it in your eyes. The trees whisper with awakening and the forest sheds the darkness that has long dominated in the guise of Sauron. You have returned, but not to Mirkwood, but to Eryn Lasgalen, cleansed of evil… You are needed here."

"I am no longer a child, Thranduil. I am not the son you remember."

"Then you understand that you cannot deny your people what they need. You have shirked from the weight of duty for many years now, and I suppose it is in part my own doing, for I have let you. But I had hoped that after the war, you would realize how much they need you to lead them."

"What does it matter? We are an immortal race, _ada_. You have been king for more than a thousand years. Our people likely will never need me as their leader." It was the mixture of genuine love, shadowed with ever present disappointment, that made it impossible for Legolas to look into his father's eyes.

"The same way they did not need you in the war we so recently fought?" Thranduil pushed. "The same way they would not have needed you, had Caranfer succeeded?"

"Would you make me into a figurehead for your own purposes, the same way you would use humiliation as a weapon, to break others apart? How can you be so certain that you know what is best… But this is not even about Sariel, is it? You will never let me go." They had finally come to the crux of the argument, the words that Legolas had long hidden away spilling out from him in a rush of resentment.

Thranduil remained unperturbed and Legolas stood stiff and tense with an anger that was augmented by his father's strategy of silence, which rendered him as the child throwing a tantrum.

"Sariel has suffered much already," Thranduil finally said. "Would you truly ask it of her to stay here with you, where our people do not accept her and where she will meet the condemning gaze of her victims everywhere she goes?"

"It was not her choice," Legolas retorted automatically, but once again, he thought about the confrontation in the caves with Nelladel.

"By choice or otherwise, Legolas, she was an assassin. Several members of my council died because she carried out the wishes of her master. Their blood is on her hands, no matter how you deny it."

"And what would you have had her do? Would _you_ have sacrificed your family, if you were forced to the same decision she had to make?" Legolas turned away, hands clenched, glad of the pain. Though he had not cried in the presence of his father since he had been a young child, tears prickled behind his eyes now.

"Never mind," he said in a hard, tight voice. "I know you would not have done it for me."

Thranduil remained silent but there was pain his heart, and guilt, too, for this child of his that he could not or would not understand. He was only doing what he felt, what he believed would protect all of the people he cared for, including his own son. Whether it was deliberate or not, whether it was by her choice or otherwise, Sariel was the kind of person who could change kingdoms.

"Will you refuse to accept her, then, and force me to choose?" Legolas finally asked into the silence. The soft, lilting syllables of Sindarin were thick with emotion. "I think you know what choice I would make, if I must."

"I wish that you could understand, Legolas," Thranduil said heavily, the deep lines at the corners of his mouth and the tightness around his eyes showing his age as little else did. "I do not oppose you, but seek only to do what is best for all of us. Sariel will not find happiness here, and in time she will hate you for it. If not for your people, or even for yourself, then do it for her. If you truly love her, then set her free."

Legolas turned his tear-bright gaze away. "Then why will you not release me from the cage you build around me?"

"I cannot command you as your father, and I would not as your king." Thranduil put one hand on his son's shoulder, his grip gentle but firm. "I only ask you to decide for yourself what you will do, and whether your actions will harm or hurt those who are most dear to your heart."

"I need her, _ada_," Legolas said softly, heartsore and disillusioned of wishing for miracles. It had been a constant struggle and perhaps the struggle had truly been futile—perhaps it was better to end the misery sooner, rather than later. He turned to go, but not before he heard his father's last words.

"Then you will need to learn to let her go."

* * *

_**Please review**!_

_Finalized January 2011 _


	28. Freedom

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

A/N: **Old readers**, please note that the story from this point on will not be what you remember. I had three or four more chapters posted after this before I took everything from Ch. 13 onward down for my revisions, but you'll recall that I never finished posting the story. You might have had some ideas about how it would end based on what I had posted, but there was no ending per say.

The big news is that I've finally settled on a slightly different ending. I've been blogging about this a lot, if you're wondering why it took almost nine frickin years for me to _finally_ write the ending that felt right. You can check out my ramblings on my xanga, although I tend to delete entries frequently. I must have written at least five alternatives before it all just clicked. To be honest, I don't think I had the maturity back when I was 13-14 to visualize anything more than a hazy ending. I definitely didn't know where I was going with the themes, either, so I kept holding back from finishing it off. Anyway, these chapters have undergone massive changes. I deleted about 12 pages from this chapter alone (basically the whole thing) and then rewrote some scenes completely. For **new readers**, none of this will matter, but if you're thinking "that isn't what I read, was it?" then sorry for any confusion.

Also, a quick reminder that this story _is_ rated R. I tried hard to find the right tone for these next couple of chapters but I know it's impossible to please everyone, so I hope you'll be mature readers.

Translations

Runya: flame

Emelin: a variation of _emmelin_ and _emlin_, meaning "yellow bird"

Glavrol: babbling

* * *

**Chapter 28: Freedom**

* * *

The stark reality did not change no matter how many times she washed her face in cold water or how fully she covered her skin in clothing. Sariel stared at her reflection in the mirror the next morning, the dress still in a pile on the floor where she had discarded it after changing out of it hours ago. She had not slept and her thoughts were still jumbled and uncertain. The latter emotion dominated over everything else and was probably the only reason why she had remained in the room. She had seriously contemplated leaving altogether that night, even without a word to anyone.

If there was anything that she had learned, it was that this could not go on. She was throwing the kingdom and the royal family into chaos just by her presence. She was navigating a minefield and the chain of explosions was going to come sooner or later. Thranduil had only showed her—and the entire court—that simply pretending that she was normal would not make her so. In a way, he had spared her from the even greater humiliation of having another Gathering called, where she might be formally exiled, at the very least, for her past crimes. Not that she was under any illusions that he did it for her benefit; he would not want his son to be associated with such a circus.

No, Thranduil would never force her to leave outright. But clearly, he had no qualms with showing her what it would be like if she stayed. Her greatest enemy was neither the court nor the king, but her own past self. If she had been the family of one of her victims, she would have demanded justice, too, let alone quietly stood by knowing that she was involved with their prince. No matter how discreet she and Legolas had been, what relationship could be hidden forever, after all? With these thoughts driving her, it was only lingering uncertainty over the decision she needed to make that kept Sariel from any rash action.

When the knock that she had been half expecting ever since she had returned to her room finally came, Sariel found herself opening the door without even checking who it was, her heart jumping into her throat. But her visitor was not who she had expected at all. Finding herself unable to speak from some strange disappointment, Sariel opened the door wider and sank into a stiff curtsey, cold all over. She had kept herself immobile for hours and now blood rushed through her ears as the queen quickly reached out to draw her up.

"Child, would you stand on ceremony with me?" Miluirin admonished, leading Sariel back into her own room and waiting until the younger Elf took a seat on her bed before doing the same next to her.

"No one else has come," she found herself admitting in a small voice. She knew that Miluirin would know exactly what she meant and part of her hoped that Miluirin would have some kind of answer or explanation. But none was coming, and Sariel felt herself wilt under the queen's grey eyes, which were as kind as always, but also assessing. Even now, something clenched hard within her chest whenever she thought of how all the Elves had watched her, their eyes dissecting the story of her scars.

The queen made no comment about her son, however, and neither did she make any reference to the events of the past night, much to Sariel's relief. Miluirin only gave her a sealed roll of parchment.

"A messenger from Gondor arrived this morning, although he was beset by a band of orcs in the last few days and delayed. This is a letter for you."

"The messenger was attacked by orcs?" Sariel asked, distracted from what she held by the mention of them.

Miluirin smiled reassuringly, though her tone was serious. "These woods are still not completely free of such enemies, though we have already sent out Elves to take care of it." A tiny frown creased her brow. "The courier was injured before he fought free of them, however. Since he is human, the poison in his wounds has not been easy to draw out."

For a moment Sariel almost asked if there was any help she could render, but she bit back the sentiment before she expressed it. She would hardly be trusted, though she surely knew more variations of the poisons used by orcs than even the best healers here, courtesy of her unique background.

"Thank you for bringing me this," she said instead to Miluirin. Unexpectedly, the queen drew her into an embrace that Sariel at first resisted instinctively, and then relaxed enough to return. Miluirin's frame was smaller than her own and the queen seemed as soft and delicate as the dove grey of her eyes suggested, but somehow Sariel felt almost protected within the circle of those arms. She could almost remember feeling the same way as a child when her mother had held her.

"Courage, daughter," the queen said into her ear, before drawing back and looking at her steadily. "Sariel, the greatest gifts given to the Elves may be time and endurance. With these two things, all things may be changed."

With one last fond smile, the queen rose and left, closing the door quietly behind her. Sariel was left sitting with the letter, a rush of gratitude warming her from inside out. From the start, Miluirin had been quick to accept her without reservation, as if she really were the daughter that she named her. Yet Sariel had never felt as though the queen had been trying to replace her own daughter's memory.

Alone once again, Sariel broke the seal on the letter. Arwen wrote of good things, of rebuilding the kingdom and of the deep love she shared with Aragorn. Together, they were healing the ugliness left behind by war and evil. More than once, Sariel was touched by her friend's observations and by the sense of the hope that ran so strong in someone who had suffered so much. Even after finishing the letter, she repeated Arwen's words to herself, wishing that she had similar strength and maturity.

_And you, Sariel? _Arwen had written near the end._ Will you stay in Eryn Lasgalen? I will wait for you and Legolas to visit Gondor someday, for things are finally at peace. There is so much loveliness in the world still, if you have the heart to see it. _

It was clear from Arwen's words that she expected her to be with Legolas, and Sariel wondered what he had written to Arwen before, for her to have such an impression. The courier birds between the two kingdoms were still in training, so communication had been sparse. Still, he must have mentioned something to their mutual friend, for Arwen to sound so assured. She was not one to assume.

Sariel took in a deep breath, trying to will away the ache in her chest. She hated to mar Arwen's well-deserved happiness in any little way, but the straightforward question in the letter had made her realize something. She had already made her decision, perhaps even weeks ago and not just because of what had happened the night before. She just had not been able to face it, but all the delay in the world would not change anything.

As she wrote a reply to the letter, she thought of the only time she had actually sent another letter to her sister of the soul. It had been right before her attempt to assassinate the Prince of Mirkwood, and that had been an unhappy confession, then, too. It was painful to think about, but the parallels could not be ignored. She had betrayed Legolas once and hurt him deeply when she had taken his trust and then tried to kill him, but Sariel could not help thinking that this time she was betraying herself. It was not as if she had suddenly come upon the idea or had made the decision willfully. She had put enough thought into this to be certain that it would be for the best, but that did not make it any easier.

_Do not send your reply back to Eryn Lasgalen, Arwen. I will not be here to receive it. I am not sure where I will go, but I cannot stay, as much as I wish I could._

Those last words cost her more than she admitted even to herself and her resolve almost failed as she stamped the soft wax with her seal. It was so hard to consign herself to a life apart from those of her race, from the few friends who had accepted her, and from him… She stopped herself here, knowing that dwelling on it would not change anything. She had waited and waited foolishly, some part of her still hoping that things would miraculously change.

They had, finally, but not in the way she had wanted. How could she have expected otherwise? Thranduil had made things unmistakably clear and if Legolas could not choose…then she would have to choose for both of them.

* * *

The messenger from Gondor was well and truly ill, and his condition was only getting worse. Sariel learned of this with dismay when she finally ventured out of her room, her desire to send Arwen the letter before she left Eryn Lasgalen outweighing her fear of staring eyes. It was somehow almost harder to walk around with her head held high now, in the light of day, than it had been the night before, when most of her attention had been focused on the king. She felt almost sick at the sensation of their watchful gazes and her shoulders were tight against the knowledge that that they all knew about the scars that were hidden beneath layers of clothing now.

Worst of all, she could not even bring herself to feel any ill will towards them. There was only a sense of loss that she would never be part of them as she wanted be. She could not blame them for failing to accept her as she was, given what she had been. But at the same time, she could not deny to herself that somehow, she still hoped that she could find a place here.

The healer who had met Sariel and told her about the messenger's condition was looking at her with something too close to pity for her to be comfortable. Sariel was already leaving the medical ward when the doors opened again suddenly with a small crash, causing her to look over her shoulder in surprise.

"Wait," a stranger called as she hurried toward Sariel. "You are Sariel, if I am not mistaken?"

Sariel turned around and stood her ground but lifted a sardonic eyebrow at the question. She was nearly as recognizable as the queen, now. "And who are you?"

Cool blue eyes met hers and something about their unusual shape in the stranger's pretty face sparked recognition. Her ashy blonde hair and her height was unremarkable, but her features and hands were delicate, like a portrait. Sariel searched her memory for those almond shaped eyes and realized that she was the Elf who had spoken to her when Sariel had been sitting outside of Legolas's room waiting for him.

"My name is Runya," the Elf murmured with a wry half-smile. "We have met before, though I have never introduced myself to you."

Color lightly flushed Sariel's cheeks in memory of her foolish actions, but it did not lessen her wariness. Both of them were aware that the other healer was within earshot and quite interested in the potential confrontation before her.

"What do you want with me?" Sariel asked bluntly.

"I know—well, I have heard…" Runya faltered. "The Gondorian man is not responding to our treatments. The poison is one that we do not recognize and we have less experience healing men then we do Elves."

Runya fell silent but Sariel was too surprised to gracefully pick up the conversation where it had been left off. Her initial wariness of Runya had faded and her instincts told her that the taller Elf was sincere. Still, she was too prudent to speak readily, especially about something so unexpected.

"Since you are here, I thought perhaps you could just look at the man," Runya suggested hesitantly. "It may be that you have more knowledge of the poison that has been used."

Seeing the hostile expression that flared to life on Sariel's face, Runya first flushed, then paled. She clearly wished that she could retract what she had just said.

"Go on, finish saying it," Sariel said with deadly calm. She glared at the other Elf, fighting the urge to back away. "I would know because I am an _assassin_. In fact, I once drugged your prince and poisoned no few others. Is that what you are thinking?"

"No!" Runya denied vehemently, reaching out as if to touch Sariel, but thought better of it at the last moment. "Please. I only meant that if your skill and knowledge surpasses ours, perhaps you would be willing to help. Healers can least allow pride to interfere with their work. I needed to ask, at least for the patient's sake."

Sariel's animosity faded and she regarded Runya with puzzlement. "Do you really believe I can help?"

"There is nothing to lose by trying," the blonde Elf countered. "They say that you saved Lianderthral before from poisoning. The Gondorian man is not getting better and he may lose his arm. Surely you can spare some of your time for him?"

The messenger had been wounded while trying to deliver news from Gondor, including the letter his queen had sent, Sariel reminded herself. Besides, everything Runya said was reasonable and Sariel herself had earlier acknowledged that there was a chance she could figure out how to counter the orcs' poison.

"All right, then," she finally agreed. "Lead me to him."

* * *

"Not all of us thought that what the king did was right, you know," Runya said softly to Sariel nearly an hour later. They were on opposite sides of the messenger's bed and the man was unconscious, having been dosed with a sleeping draught.

Sariel did not look up. She was busy injecting an antidote into the patient's arm, her hands steady as she handled the silver needle. "He can only expose what is already there to be exposed. My past has hardly been a secret."

"There was no need for him to make a show of it, however." Runya regarded her thoughtfully. "You did not need to expose yourself, either. You could have refused to wear the gown or at least covered your shoulders, yet you walked out anyway. Why?"

Sariel shrugged, rising and exiting the room, Runya trailing behind as if reluctant to let her go. Their work together would indeed ensure that the Gondorian regained full function of his arm. After testing the blood from his wound repeatedly, they had determined that the orc blade had been coated in a mix of four different poisons—three of which Runya and the other healers already knew, but one that they did not. Fortunately, Sariel had figured out what it was, and they were able to prepare an antidote in the right proportions and concentration. Though neither admitted it, they had been mutually impressed with each other.

"I do not seek to oppose King Thranduil," she told the healer now as a matter of fact. "Perhaps I even agree with what he did. Humiliation is a small price to pay for my crimes, after all."

Runya shook her head in disagreement. "You cannot be serious. You are also admirable in many ways too, Sariel. I cannot speak for all others, but you should know that while the king will always be held in our respect, we will not play to his game."

This had Sariel stopping in surprise. "What do you mean by that?"

"I have heard from the queen that you enjoy music," Runya said quickly, not quite answering. "My daughter will be performing at a small concert tomorrow afternoon. A few of my friends will also be there and some ladies that I am sure you have met before."

Sariel was remembering the hint of disdain that Runya had displayed when they had previously met, but now that she recalled the moment, she wondered if she had misread it. She found Runya's undeniable and classic beauty intimidating even now—it seemed to hint at the sort of elite status that Sariel found most difficult to face. The other Elf's delicate features and flawless skin made her seem aloof when she was most likely shy herself.

Seeing the look of incomprehension in Sariel's eyes, Runya smiled self-depreciatingly and added, "I hope you will grace us with your presence?"

"I… I might," Sariel finally answered, her mind racing in confusion at what she had gotten herself into. Yet what could it hurt? Regardless of how Runya's event went, she would soon be far away from here.

"It will help if you do come," Runya said seriously. "The king's word may be law, but it is Queen Miluirin who looks after the court. At the very least, I can promise our purity of intent."

Sariel tilted her head in uncertain agreement. "Until we next meet, then."

Runya echoed the traditional words of parting, her blue eyes earnest. Then she added, "Thank you for giving me a chance today."

As she left, Sariel found herself thinking that it was Runya who had offered her a chance—but for what? She had already made her decision and all she needed to do was take that next step and tell Legolas. But part of her remained unwilling to do so, too afraid of his reaction and of what unknown future lay ahead because of her choice.

* * *

It was midday before Legolas even admitted to himself that he was avoiding her and thus avoiding the issue altogether. In his foul mood, he had not spoken with anyone since last night, and no one had even tried to approach him, the steel in his gaze all too visible. Instead, he grabbed his bow and quiver and left the palace. He would have enjoyed some sparring, swords being more effective in working out his fury, but the thought of hunting for a partner with the right level of skill dissuaded him.

The vicious _thwunk _of his arrows hitting the target so far away was satisfying, at least. He methodically fired arrow after arrow, not realizing that he was starting to build up an audience. The problem with archery was that it was too easy for someone like him. It came to him almost as easily as breathing, leaving his mind free to wander back to the thoughts he was trying to chase away. Even during his precise movements of drawing back the bowstring, aiming, and firing, he could think of nothing else.

When had that idea first occurred to him? It had been sometime last night, born of some sort of desperation—never a good starting point. But the obstacles that they faced seemed to be beyond his ability to overcome and this was the only solution.

_Thwunk._ Legolas wished that he could be as certain about this as the arrow was in its flight. It was better for Sariel if he did as he was beginning to plan, right? _Thwunk. _She would not let go any other way, and he was beginning to see the truth. To force her to stay would only destroy her slowly. _Thwunk. _But could he even bring himself to play out such an act? _Thwunk._

He almost hated how his aim did not falter despite his lack of real concentration. Legolas automatically reached back to draw another arrow when a hand touched his arm, startling him enough that he took aim at whoever had interrupted him. Lianderthral stepped back quickly, never having expected that his approach had gone completely unnoticed. He was holding two wooden practice swords.

As he took in the presence of the other Elf, Legolas finally noticed the small crowd that had gathered to watch him. He turned away from them, jaw clenched with annoyance. They were just another reminder of everything he resented right now—his position, his duty, his father, and most of all, the power of aggregated opinion. Acceptance was like love. It simply could not be forced or bought; it could only be won.

He turned back to Lianderthral, who was watching him with a hint of worry. Sariel had not been in her room earlier in the morning, so Lianderthral had not seen her, but looking at the taut tension in the other Elf's stance, perhaps Legolas was more important at the moment. He looked as if he were a bow ready to snap under pressure. The two had probably not met since last night, and both seemed the worse for it.

Lianderthral tossed one of the swords to Legolas, who caught it reflexively and shot a piercing glare at him. Unfazed by the other male's anger, the green-eyed Elf smiled rather cockily at his lookalike, much to the interest of their audience.

"Well?" Lianderthral challenged. "Is this not long overdue?"

He silently followed Legolas indoors to a practice room, inwardly amused by the faces of disappointment when the others realized that they would not be able to see this match. But when the door shut and it was just the two of them, his humor vanished.

Forgetting or willfully forgoing basic courtesy, Legolas did not bother with a warm up round or even give some time for his opponent to prepare himself. Lianderthral was glad that he had the foresight to stretch his muscles before the challenge and spared a moment's worry over the feral light in the sapphire gaze that he faced. Despite months spent in the other Elf's company, he had rarely seen Legolas so focused in his anger.

They started by circling warily around each other and within a few heartbeats, Legolas was already darting in, trying to slip around his guard. That was when the match truly began and though it was supposedly only practice, they held nothing back.

After the first few minutes, Lianderthral forgot about everything else. He faced an angry, uncontrolled Legolas, and it was like facing an oncoming storm. He was quick, Legolas forced him to be quicker. He put force behind his blows; Legolas slammed the wooden sword down on his until Lianderthral thought the blades would shatter, though even practice swords of Elven craft were durable. Safety did not cross either of their minds, although the swords, with only slightly blunted edges, could still injure and kill.

Somewhat tired, the first rush of energy spent, they slipped into the rhythm of the fight. After the initial testing, they both realized that they were too well matched for this to end easily or soon. They circled each other again and Lianderthral suddenly recalled that he had come here for a specific purpose.

"Sariel…" he started. A swift blur of motion was all the warning he had; Lianderthral threw up his sword just in time to meet Legolas's deadly downward chop, and the force shuddered all the way through his arm.

"What about her?" Legolas growled.

"Will you let this continue?" With the distraction, Lianderthral saw his advantage and pressed in, only to be turned back by a flurry of lighting-quick blocks.

"You know nothing of what you speak." Fury only fueled the speed of Legolas's footwork and Lianderthral found himself so hard pressed that he almost missed the next words from the prince. "If you love someone then you must let them go."

It was said completely flatly, the tone of his voice at complete odds with the ferocity of his attacks. The actual meaning so surprised Lianderthral that for a moment he faltered, and then Legolas was on him. But he had not heard anything about what he needed to know and this match could not be over yet. Legolas was just so light and so fast on his feet—at the last moment, Lianderthral executed a perfect butterfly block and just managed to ward him off. Immediately, it was back to circling, though the exertion was showing on both their faces now. After all, there was more than one fight going on.

"You are making a mistake," Lianderthral warned, willing his muscles to remain loose despite the tension and creeping fatigue.

"Is that so?" Legolas hissed. Despite the amount of time that had lapsed, his movements were still smoothly controlled—and it was still patently obvious that he was absolutely infuriated.

Lianderthral bared his teeth in a smile he did not actually feel. "I never thought you would be the kind to surrender, _prince_."

The tip of Legolas's sword darted towards his heart but its blade collided into Lianderthral's block, which tried to force the blade upwards. With a jarring sound—if the swords had been steel, it would bone-chilling hiss—the swords slid until they were hilt to hilt. So close to each other, Legolas bore down on Lianderthral with all his weight.

"Do you want to die?" he gritted out. The advantage was his—he was pushing down while the green-eyed Elf was trying to pull up.

"Then _why_?" Lianderthral demanded, struggling just to maintain his stance. The strain was evident in his voice. "If it is Thranduil—"

"Thranduil!" Legolas echoed. "Yes, my king…and my _father_. What do you know of duty, Lianderthral? You, who are completely free?"

They were matched in strength, but Legolas was far angrier and had found a willing target for that anger. Lianderthral's sword was forced dangerously low.

"What would you have me do? What he says is true. She is shunned here—you have seen it yourself! Despite both of our efforts, the prejudice against her is too much to overcome as my people are now. How could we have ever expected otherwise?"

Legolas spoke in low, rushed tones, his reasoning almost helplessly tumbling out. The hardness of the blue in his eyes had faded into something closer to anguish. Lianderthral finally broke free and moved back before Legolas could lock him again. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck.

"So what _will _you do?" he asked, intent on the conversation. His negligence nearly cost him some broken bones as Legolas unleashed another series of offensive strikes. It took all of Lianderthral's concentration to defend himself.

"I'll do what is best for her," Legolas answered grimly. "Would _you_ seek to keep her here, even knowing she would be unhappy? Or would you set her free?"

He struck at Lianderthral again but turned his face away, his anger spent. Even Lianderthral had no reply to this last question. Legolas was suddenly tired and heartsore, almost sick with knowing what was ahead of him. If only there was another way. Any other way that he could see.

He bit his lip savagely enough that blood filled his mouth and the coppery taste helped him will away the blurriness that threatened to take over his vision. But there it was, a so slight opening in what was an almost impenetrable guard. Lianderthral always feinted to the left just a little too far. He saw it almost regretfully.

The tip of the sword slipped past Lianderthral's guard in less than a heartbeat, then snaked up to hover against his unprotected neck.

"Do you yield?" Legolas whispered. He had no more breath left for conversation and his throat was too choked from exertion both physical and emotional.

"I yield," came the quiet reply.

But somehow, in the ensuing moment of peace, it felt like they had both lost.

Legolas lowered his sword and then violently speared it into the packed dirt beneath them with a sound that was almost a sob. They were mere inches from each other and both Elves looked down at the hilt of the blade, which Legolas still gripped in his two hands. His knuckles were stark white. His bowed head was almost resting on Lianderthral's shoulder.

They both stood still for a while, breathing hard in the silence.

* * *

With each hour that passed, her heart twisted in her chest a little bit more. It had been nearly two days since that night and Sariel had still not seen Legolas once. Somehow, that only made her choice worse. She had come to realize that they would not be able to overcome this last thing, not together, but she had never expected him to be the one to acknowledge it first. His absence felt like he was giving up on her without even a word—or perhaps he had realized that he did not want his name to be linked to an assassin's, after all.

Unable to stand whiling away the hours by herself in her room, Sariel found herself taking up Runya's offer. She did not want to talk to either Lianderthral and Eros—some part of her felt that if she were to tell anyone that she was leaving, she should tell Legolas first. Though Miluirin had made it clear that Sariel could seek her out at any time, it was too unbearable to speak to Legolas's mother about such things.

Still, it turned out that she found herself greeting the queen after all, along with several others whom she was sure were high in standing. The concert was to be in one of the palace rooms, large enough to hold forty people comfortably, although there was only about half that number present. As Sariel anxiously looked around the room, she noted that she did recognize almost everyone there, and they had been the ones that appeared to have responded favorably to her before.

"Sariel, this is my daughter, Emelin," Runya introduced. "She will be playing the harp for us today. She was delighted when I told her you might be coming."

The young Elf-maid smiled shyly at Sariel, who impulsively smiled back. Emelin only came up to her mother's elbow and looked like a smaller, younger version of her mother. Her ashy blonde hair was a slightly lighter shade, but her features were quite similar.

"I hope you will like the music, Lady Sariel," she said, her startlingly blue eyes wide in her childish face. She was small, almost birdlike in her build. Though Emelin undoubtedly would grow into her fragile looks as her mother clearly had, her nose was slightly upturned and her cheeks still rounded. But despite her youth, the look she gave Sariel was inquisitive and intelligent—and, more surprisingly, fearless. She dismissed herself politely from the adults and headed for the chair and harp on the small stage.

The concert was closer to an informal performance than anything else, Sariel discovered. Emelin's music appreciatively listened to, but not at the expense of light conversation. Though the group appeared to be longtime friends, she found herself naturally included, not as though they were pretending to ignore that she was different from them, but rather as if they were not of the opinion that it was a bad thing. Runya told her that they met frequently and discussed many things, which led Sariel to wonder if she had been discussed at one point.

Somehow, though that was likely a true thought, she did not mind. They were not all as approachable as Runya, but surprisingly, Sariel felt as much at ease as she could be among them, under the circumstances. Some were paired, though Sariel learned the Emelin's father had been one of the Elves who had died in the recent war.

Time and again, her eyes were drawn to Emelin, the first child that Sariel had met for any prolonged period of time in Eryn Lasgalen. Her innocence was compelling, and yet it was not an innocence born of ignorance, but rather of some other quality that Sariel had not thought was possible. She certainly did not act as though she felt threatened by Sariel.

Runya noticed Sariel's interest and encouraged her to talk to Emelin. That was how Sariel found herself playing the harp not long after, while Runya's daughter listened with obvious delight.

"You are much better than me," she said when Sariel finished the piece. She spoke with the frank honesty of a youth who took pride in her activities, but still knew the value of humility. "My father taught me to play, but…no longer."

Seeking to ward off the shadow of pain in the young girl's eyes, Sariel asked, "Would you like to continue learning to play, then?"

Emelin looked at her, suddenly hopeful. "Will you teach me?"

Sariel almost replied in affirmation before she abruptly realized that in less than a week, she probably would not even be here. "I am sorry, Emelin." She regretfully shook her head. "I cannot, but I am sure your mother can help you find some skilled teachers."

But Emelin hesitated, fingers nervously rubbing the carved wood of the harp. She even smoothed the small wrinkles in her pastel sunshine dress. "Can you… Can you tell her for me? That I want to learn more?"

"Of course," Sariel replied, a little puzzled by the strange request before she finally understood. Emelin knew that bringing up the topic would grieve her mother, so she had not done so. Yet the child trusted that Sariel would find a way to suggest further lessons to Runya without necessarily tying it with her father's death.

"I was there when you defended the king," Emelin said, looking down at her hands even though her words were bold. "My mother and I were both there."

It took a moment for Sariel to understand what she meant, and then she was horrified. This Elven child had seen her kill mercilessly—had witnessed something that had probably scarred her psyche forever. But when Sariel blindly turned toward Runya's direction as if hoping for help from that quarter, Emelin tugged at her sleeve to get her attention again.

"You were brave," she said with an astonishing simplicity. "Father told me about you when he left to fight in the south with the prince. I wish that I had been allowed to go with him."

"You wish that…" Sariel was speechless, but as she stared at Emelin, she realized that she had actually been younger when she had killed her first orc. This child was young, but not sheltered. Innocent, but not naïve about war or death.

Emelin's cornflower blue eyes suddenly shone wetly and Sariel realized that she was holding back tears. "Mother said that Prince Legolas avenged Father," she said fiercely, her skin pale enough that the faintest of freckles across her cheeks appeared. "They say that he loves you and that he should not, but I do not care. I am glad you are with him."

Swallowing past the lump in her own throat, Sariel hesitantly leaned forward to touch the girl's shoulder, trying to offer what comfort she could. "Thank you."

Emelin had no such reservations and she wrapped her arms around Sariel for a brief embrace. She was stronger that she appeared. "Please talk to my mother for me, Lady Sariel."

"I will," Sariel promised, and with one last look at her, left her to do exactly that. She heard Emelin begin playing the harp again almost as if in a daze.

As expected, Runya was only supportive of her daughter's musical interests and later, Sariel looked up across the room at Emelin, who gave her a grateful smile. The next hour passed in a pleasant fashion, with no other surprises.

When the farewells were finally being said all around, Miluirin clasped Sariel's hand for a moment longer than normal. They had not spoken much, perhaps because Sariel was still subconsciously avoiding her. Miluirin said nothing overt now, but her warm look was almost approving, and Sariel remembered the message of hope that the queen had left with her before.

She said her own goodbyes and looking at all the kind faces before her, almost wondered if she could stay.

* * *

Sariel did not return to her quarters until evening, but she sensed some difference the moment she stepped back into the room. Someone had been in her room while she was away, but who would dare to come in uninvited? The person had even avoided the gossamer thread that Sariel had strung across the floor of her room like a secret tripwire. She scanned her surroundings, expecting to see some kind of damage. Instead, her eye fell on the piece of paper on her table and she quickly grabbed and unfolded it.

_Meet me in the Queen's garden tonight_. That was all that the parchment scrap had on it, but the handwriting sent her spirits plummeting in a heartbeat. No specific time was listed, but then again, both of them knew what the usual time was. Given how late she had returned, he would already be there, waiting for her.

She sat down on her bed abruptly and stared at the words as if they would disappear if she desired it enough. She had almost wished the moment would never have to come, as if they could just sustain this estrangement forever. Had she been regretting his absence? She wanted the safety of it now. He was so close to her but at the same time he was untouchable, because if they met, then it was final. It was over.

Out of habit, she pulled on a cloak, the hood shadowing her face as she slipped into the hall with the message in hand. For a long moment, she simply stood there in her doorway, her feel unwilling to move. Slowly, each step taking far more effort than she would have ever imagined, she made her way to the intersection of the halls.

"Yes, it really _is_ true, Glavrol…"

She could hear footsteps and voices around the corner far ahead and some perverse instinct made Sariel swiftly duck into one of the empty, unlocked rooms, pulling the door not quite shut behind her. It was not until she was breathing hard in the darkness of the room that she tasted salt on her lips and realized that they were from tears.

"They say that the scars are the least of it, though," another voice said. The next faint words that Sariel caught made her stomach twist sickeningly.

"…you know…Belderon took her as his mistress?"

They must have come around the corner because suddenly the voices were perfectly clear. Inside the room, Sariel pressed her cheek so hard against the cold stone of the wall next to the door that the rough surface was likely to leave a trace.

There was a slight pause, then faint surprise. "She gave herself willingly to him? Glavrol, perhaps—" "

The rest was drowned out by a low and nasty laugh. "Well, it must have been, else why would she still be here?"

"Still, we should not speak of it so," the first speaker said uncertainly. "The king would not like it." Sariel watched as the thin sliver of light falling across the floor from the door was blocked for a moment as the two walked past.

"It is nothing but the truth," Glavrol retorted. "One of the king's attendants heard it all when they had just come from Nenuial, right before she brought the war here."

Bile rose in Sariel's throat but she remained still, closing her eyes. The conversation between the two Elves continued and she blocked the words out, concentrating on the footsteps that continued in their unhurried pace down the corridor.

Finally, they were turning again and far enough that she could no longer fully hear what they were saying. But fragments still penetrated as she opened the door and slipped out of the dark room, almost stumbling into the empty hall.

"…it seems like she is death's whore in more than one way…you imagine it?"

Oh, she could, only all too well.

Sariel dug her fingernails into her palms until warm blood welled, but she came from a race that could withstand great pain and this barely registered. She hardly saw the others she passed as she continued through the hallways, the walls around her reminding her of the rabbit warren that Belderon's stone fortress had been. She fought the rising tide of fear but all it took was one whisper of ridicule, some sort of faint laugh.

Then suddenly she was running through the halls, unable to stop herself. Panic and pain drove her on, the surprised faces around her melting into frightening masks of scorn and pity, the brilliant, jewel-colored eyes filled with cold disgust. Their lips were moving but soundlessly, and yet Sariel knew exactly what they were all saying—

She collided with someone and fell hard to the floor. She looked up into a face with golden hair and colorless irises, the Elf's features blurring in her vision. A pale hand reached out to pull her up, but the feeling of the hand on her arm—the sight of Belderon's long fingers—was just too much.

An earsplitting scream burst from her. She scrambled away on her hands and knees before getting up and pushing through the suddenly gathering crowd. The sense of terror was inescapable even when she told herself none of it could be real. Belderon was dead. He was _dead_.

Her own words to Runya seemed to mock her now. _My past has hardly been a secret. He can only expose what is already there to be exposed. _

She had forgotten that there was one last secret after all.

* * *

Inside the garden, her heart still hammering in her chest, Sariel breathed in deep gulps of the cool night air. The garden looked different by night; pale flowers bloomed and released a sweet scent into the air. Rather than the sunlight creating speckled patterns of green and gold, white moonbeams danced on pools of water where the birds bathed by day. The sheer loveliness of her surroundings only made it all the more surreal, like dream that would at any moment start turning into a nightmare.

There were several marble blocks in the middle of the garden that served as seats, but one was already occupied. Legolas sat so still and silent that he might have been a statue made of marble himself. He broke the illusion when he turned to look at her, his eyes dark and expressionless. Something in the way she looked must have alarmed him, however, because he rose to his feet instantly.

"Sariel? Did something happen?"

She stared at him, trying to comprehend his words, because all she heard was his voice asking the same question. _You gave yourself willingly to him?_

_...else why would she still be here?_

"No," she whispered, and forcibly wrenched herself back to the present, to the Elf standing before her, who knew nothing of what had just happened. "No."

Her acting could not have fooled him and yet Legolas did not ask again. She was not sure if she was relieved or alarmed that he did not try to close the distance between them. Aside from his first question, he seemed very different from normal. It had only been two days since she had last seen him, but she did not know how to bridge the distance between them that had grown wider even as in others' eyes they had grown closer.

"I am sorry to have kept you waiting for me," she said, hating the tightness in her voice for giving away her nerves. "I only just got your message."

He shrugged, his expression aloof. "It does not matter."

Looking at the hands he held clasped in front of him, Sariel was struck by the icy realization that what she had suspected, but had not been able to bring herself to really believe, was true. What had changed between them? All too readily she remembered the crushing humiliation she had felt during that night. Perhaps Legolas had felt it too—and had taken his father's censure, in such a public way, more to heart.

She had logically known before, from all the hours he had stayed away, that something was shifting. She had thought that she could accept it, but it still hit her like blow now. It was obvious once she looked for it. He had not tried to defend her from his father. He had not bothered to check on how she was feeling, or to use his presence beside her to ward off the stinging remarks from the more malicious and bold tongues. How long ago had he started giving up—before Thranduil had even made their options clear? Had he even… Had he known that the whole court _knew_, now?

Sariel's voice was low, hardly audible. "Legolas…are you ashamed of me?"

Her voice wavered on the last word until it was more statement than question, but suddenly nothing was more important than this last bit of truth. At the very least, she wanted the memory of all the time during which they had been together. If nothing else, that part of all the countless hours and days they had spent together was pure, was it not? She did not want to always wonder if, even then, he had been preparing for the end.

So she waited, unable to even breathe.

The silence stretched on and her lungs were protesting, her heart thundering in her ears, but he just stood and looked away from her, his eyes on a climbing briar rose nearby.

The words of denial were not voiced.

She was growing lightheaded and there were dark spots blooming in her vision. She wished suddenly that she could take the question back because she had thought she wanted to know, but now she could not stand the truth. He was still and silent again, he _did not care_, and that that was all that mattered.

It was the beginning and the end of her world, the birth and death of a tiny universe encapsulated in the crumbling walls around her, in a garden too wild to be fully cultivated and too beautiful to be wild. Did he know that she was suffocating under the pressure of her failing hopes?

She crumpled to the soft ground as though if her knees had been cut out beneath her. Stinging palms flattening the blades of grass beneath, Sariel finally exhaled in shuddering, soundless defeat. Her chest rose automatically with a new, desperate breath of air, but she held herself as though she might shatter if she moved.

The silence was answer enough to more than one question.

She stayed kneeling on the grass, too tired to try to rise. There had been so many thoughts weighing her down that somehow giving in now left her feeling empty, blank. It was pathetic that she could not seem to even win his attention right now, though he remained right there in front of her. All she wanted to do, all she had left to do, was to tell him. Then she would find somewhere private where she could just let go completely, no need to hold herself together on sheer willpower alone.

The moonlight glinted down on Legolas's fair hair, turning it more silver than gold. It seemed to glow around him, his face shadowed as he stood with his back to the light, at last turning to look down at her.

"There is something I want to tell you," she choked out. She did not have to speak loudly for Legolas to be able to hear.

He finally spoke, forestalling her. "We cannot do this any longer, Sariel."

Her heart squeezed so tightly in her chest that it was all she could do to withhold a cry. When had he become so cold? Some part of her, detached from all this, insisted that it was better that he was pushing her away. That no matter what he had said to her before, it seemed like he was the one to let go first, in the end. It was as if the person who stood before her was a stranger she had never met.

She told herself that this way, he would not suffer. But still, Sariel had never thought it would happen like this. She had never consciously imagined that he would be able to see this through as though he had never even cared for her.

"Will you not even hear me out first?" There was a pleading note in her voice but she was too far gone to feel shame.

His features were closed, unreadable. She felt her heart shred a little more at the dispassionate calm of his gaze. "There is nothing left to say." He spread his hands out wide in a gesture of futility. "You do not belong here—you never did. We were both only deluding ourselves."

Only the feeling of the dewy grass beneath her hands convinced her that this was reality, not a dream. She swallowed hard and tried to keep her voice steady. "Do you really mean that?"

"Why else would I say it?" His tone was impatient, his gaze unflinching.

But her eye was drawn magnetically to a small movement. His hand had clenched at his side and without realizing it, she mimicked the action, uncaring of the blood that was smeared across her lacerated palms. He was hiding what he was feeling, but she did not understand why he felt he needed to do so.

"I am leaving tomorrow," she said, and the night seemed to turn cold just with her words alone. "You are right. We cannot keep doing this and I never belonged here from the start."

"You are unhappy here," he countered softly. "So go, Sariel. Just go."

She stared at the unforgiving line of his mouth, seeing nothing, and the worst part was that she knew he was not lying. He meant every word as much as she meant hers. It did not matter whether or not he realized that the storm was just starting for her. It did not matter if he knew that tonight, one of his father's attendants had added an extra chapter to the ugly drama that had so captivated the court's attention.

Sariel could not pinpoint exactly what had marked the beginning of the end. Had it been when she arrived in Eryn Lasgalen with a war on her heels? When she had killed Caranfer? Was it the night of the celebration, with the dress? Or had it all been ending from the very start, from the sheer impossibility found in their identities of assassin and prince?

She wanted to go. He wanted her to go. It was that simple. No matter what he had said before, what promises had been made and were breaking now, the war was over. There was no longer something worth fighting for, not when they let go of each other. Separately, they had decided they would not be together. It should have made it hurt less, that it was apparently a mutual decision, but it only made it hurt more.

So this was the true sound of heartbreak, she thought—not wild and screaming, not dramatic and angry, but just this empty, hollow silence that neither of them could fill. It was the silence of footsteps that had stopped following, the silence of countless memories fading into the vast distance between the present and the rapidly retreating past.

It was the silence of absence, and of freedom.

"Goodbye, Legolas."

* * *

.

* * *

A/N: First, I'm sorry for breaking the chapter off at this point. Originally, this part didn't end here at all, but this chapter was already 15 pages and it was either going to have to end here or become 23 pages long. So, expect a Part II to this, please have a little faith in me as an author, point out any lingering typos, and as always, **please review**!

_Finalized January 2011_


	29. Halfway to Anywhere

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

Notes: Again, the story from here and on has changed a lot from what I originally wrote and posted, so don't be alarmed if you're a returning reader. Also, another quick reminder that this story _is_ rated R, but please skip reading anything that makes you uncomfortable.

Translations

_Amarthand_: combination of _amar_, "earth" and _thand_, "shield"; "firm, true, abiding" (S)

_síla elen_: star shine (Q)

* * *

**Chapter 29: Halfway to Anywhere**

* * *

Sariel had no memory of how she had returned to her rooms. She knew only that Legolas had left the garden first. At some point she had forced herself onto her feet and left too, and from then on her training must have taken over because she had somehow avoided all others until she was back behind the safety of a closed door. Not that it made that much of a difference where she was—how could she focus on her surroundings when her goodbye was still ringing through the blankness of her mind?

After so many months, she still had surprisingly few possessions. She laid everything out on her bed and retrieved her saddlebags from where she had stored them in the closet. Most of her essential supplies had never even been taken out of the saddlebags in the first place. Her body had seemed to move of its own accord up until this point, but she stopped now, looking down at what little she had.

There were a few changes of clothes and some cloaks that were virtually identical to the ones she had started out with, long ago. She still had her collection of dried herbs and powders, some medicinal and some poisonous. Two books on healing that Runya had just given her. The letter from Arwen. A tiny glass bauble that Ithildin had given her. The vast majority of what she had were weapons—blades of all sizes and types, her bow, a full quiver, the broken shards of Aurielen that still remained in the sword's original scabbard, and her box full of the kinds of tools that only assassins used.

She left the painting that Aurë had given her on the table, thinking that she would write a note indicating that it should go to Runya. Likewise, she decided to leave behind the gown that Miluirin had given her, the one that had been meant for a royal daughter. Sariel had never even worn it and she stared for a long time at the rich green fabric, which shimmered with a dark luster.

What would the queen say, she wondered, when she heard that Sariel had disappeared without a single farewell? What would Eros or Runya think when they found out that she was gone? And when the whole court finally noted her absence, when every single person must be guessing at the reasons for it, would Emelin still think she was brave?

Such thoughts should have made her feel sad, but the truth was, she could not bring herself to care about them more than fleetingly right now. They were only distractions that she used so she would not have to acknowledge the thing inside her was trying to claw its way out of her chest. It was this pathetic realization that shattered the false calm that had come over her.

All she could think about was what he had said, and the sense of loss that had nothing to do with the fact that she was leaving. It was as if he had denied that she had ever been by his side at all. _We were both only deluding ourselves_.

In that very same voice, he had whispered assurances to her before, not even so long ago. They had spent all those days together after the war, while she attempted to learn what it meant to be normal and he took up the responsibility of leading his people. She remembered each and every time they had stolen away from everyone else so that they could be with each other. Legolas had been the one to promise her that there would be a way, when she had not even wanted to hear such promises. He had been the one who had asked her to stay, but now he wanted her to go.

Sariel unfastened the charm bracelet that encircled her wrist. Had it meant anything to him? Until tonight, though neither of them had truly said anything, she had been sure that it did. The closest they had ever come to speaking about it had been when he had asked her if she could love him—and she had fled.

The silver links were heavy in her hand. She dropped the bracelet on top of the dark green fabric of the dress, where she had left it next to the painting. She would leave this with him, this tangible symbol of their delusion.

Her mind kept replaying their conversation in the queen's garden, as if she would find some explanation, some alternative to the possibility that there was no hidden message at all. She had searched his eyes for some hint of a lie, and yet he had looked back steadily at her, unresponsive to her agony. He had chosen to let his silence speak for him, not even caring that there had been something else she had wanted to say to him.

Even now, she still wanted to say it. Just once.

Pain suddenly transmuted to anger. With a cry, Sariel whirled around and lashed out, her arm sweeping in a wide arc and knocking everything she had laid out so precisely on her bed to the floor. The crash of the items did nothing to satisfy her fury. Ithildin's pretty bauble had shattered. She could see her wooden assassin's box lying on its side, the lid partially open and the thin wire of a garrote spilling out. The gleam of a partially unsheathed blade in the mess at her feet caught her eye and inspired her. In her next breath, she began disarming herself, savagely pulling free all the weapons that she always concealed on her body.

So many pieces of metal to discard. She dropped and then flung them to the floor, taking pleasure in the sounds they made. These weapons had always felt like a part of her. Stripped of them, she felt naked, defenseless, and oddly free. Her knives were saved for last. Sariel threw them to the floor with all her considerable strength, hearing her own breath coming in pants over the startling clash of steel against stone.

She grabbed her quiver from the floor in one fluid motion and upended it, shaking hard enough that the arrows fell out and into a scattered pile. Sariel had fashioned every single one with her own hands, but now she grabbed them and snapped them in half, and then again into fourths. When she was done, broken wood, bits of fletching, and arrowheads lay mixed with everything else on the floor.

But the physical release she had gained was not nearly enough. The urge to carry out more violence against anything she could was dizzying. She was so _angry_, and the more it hurt, the angrier she was. Every time she thought of his indifferent eyes, something twisted in her chest and fed the white hot coils of fury in her stomach. Overcome, Sariel crouched down in the midst of the mess, head in her hands and elbows pressed hard against her knees.

She could endure this, she _would _endure this, because she must.

* * *

Sariel came back to herself abruptly when the back of her neck prickled unpleasantly. She rose to her feet in an instant, instinctively turning around to face the entrance to her bedroom as she did so. The light from the other room made a halo of the gold hair of the figure that stood in the doorway.

It was Legolas.

As she stared unseeingly at the leaf brooch of his cloak at his throat, her mind raced with useless thoughts. She had closed the main door, but she did not remember locking it. Things had been too much of a blur then, just as they threatened to become again right this moment.

Maybe she had locked it. Maybe she had forgotten. What lock could keep him out, anyway? Yet even if Legolas was here, standing right before her, she did not have to look at him. She looked everywhere else but at his face, because for a heartbeat she was sure that if she saw that expression again, that aloof disregard, she would lose all restraint. She would do terrible things and perhaps she would not even regret them.

"Sariel," he said softly.

That was all it took—she raised her eyes, she could not help herself. Relief surged through her when she realized he was distracted and not looking at her. She saw his eyes scan the destruction around her, the knives and glass shards at her feet, the clothing strewn across the floor and the broken arrows. Then his gaze flicked over to the table, where he took in painting, dress, and bracelet all at once, in a glance.

His eyes came back to hers and the pure despair that she saw in his gaze trapped her, confused her. Then it fed her anger, for her first instinct was still to touch him in comfort and to do everything in her power to take away the anguish that she saw so clearly.

Legolas made no move to enter her bedroom, instead standing on the threshold like some phantom of her imagination. They might have both been caught in a nightmare. He looked almost feverish, eyes too bright in a very pale face. When he spoke, his voice was thick.

"You will not wear your bracelet when you go?"

Only an hour ago, she would have given anything to hear such emotion underlying his words. But now it only seemed to twist the knife in deeper.

"I thought I should return it," she answered. "Why come here, Legolas?"

She had never spoken his name like that before, as if it were a blade slicing through the air between them. She saw that it found its mark.

"I could not stay away. I could not…" His voice abruptly faded away and he stopped, too choked to speak. He swallowed hard, his throat moving convulsively.

Finally, "I am too selfish to let you go like this."

Legolas turned his face away from her abruptly, shoulders tense, and it was only this awkward movement that betrayed him. He _was _different, completely different from the Elf that she had met with earlier, and he was radiating something both fierce and angry, hard and helpless.

Her fury dissolved into further pain, so Sariel deliberately recalled how he had told her, wordlessly, that he was ashamed of her. Even the mere memory of it seemed to pierce her through. She transmuted all that hurt into a desperate anger, because if she did not, surely it could not be borne.

"Have we not said our goodbyes? Have you not already said all that needed to be said?" She wanted to scream such things at him, to throw them back at him so he would know she did not care, just as he did not care. But still they came out quietly and in the end, brokenly.

"Please…" Legolas whispered into the dark corner of the room. "Please, Sariel, tell me you understand."

He turned to look at her again at last and Sariel's breath hitched. There was a world of pain in his eyes that told her he knew exactly what she was feeling, because he felt it also. It was true he wanted her to go and yet this was true, too—the raw need in his voice, the tears in his eyes, and most of all, the look of someone who knew he was going to lose everything.

She wanted to look away, but could not. "Why did you try to pretend?"

"Would it make a difference if I fought this?" he asked in equal pain and anger. "Would it change anything if I told you I will never let you go?"

His false façade was crumbling to pieces and abruptly she _did _understand what he had done and why he had done it—she understood only all too well. It was better for them to make a clean break, to stop tormenting themselves by stubbornly clinging onto the last shreds of hope. They needed to endure and accept what they could not change. They had both tried, as much as they could, even when they hurt themselves and each other trying.

But he had not been able to stay away, in the end, and she had not been able to go silently into the night, no one the wiser of her departure. Now there was no way out of the trap they had made. He took a step forward and then another, as if helplessly drawn to her. Just as helplessly, she stood frozen to the spot.

Legolas took yet another step, and then he was crossing the room and all the invisible lines they had drawn between them. Glass crunched beneath his feet, but he did not look down to see what he was stepping over. When he stood before her, he reached out and took her hands, heedless of the dried blood from the self-inflicted wounds on her palms. He was just as angry and despairing as she.

"Would you be able to stay if I just told you that I need you? If I swear that I want you, that I love you?" He paused for the briefest of moments, never looking away from her. "Because I do, Sariel, and you know it. I love you. I have loved you for so long now that I cannot imagine what it would be like without you."

"Legolas," she whispered, grasping his hands tightly and knowing with a peculiar certainty that if they continued to deny each other now, there would never be another chance. She could barely speak, her heart simultaneously bursting with joy and grief.

"You do not need to say anything at all," he told her seriously, voice matching hers in softness. "I only want you to know the truth. I am yours and will always be yours, whatever the future holds for us."

There was such tenderness in his gaze and her vision blurred until the tears spilled in hot trails down her face, leaving everything clearer and more intense. She bowed her head over their clasped hands, her dark hair falling forward to hide her face, and heard the softest of sighs from him.

"I am only sorry that I have brought so much pain and sorrow to you."

He seemed about to say more, but this was the one chance that Sariel had so desperately wanted. She let go of his hands so she could reach up and touch his cheek. He stood very still as she let her hand trace down the curve of his face until her fingers brushed against his lips, quieting him. This was the moment she had both feared and hoped for, ever since her failed attempt on his life.

"I love you, Legolas." It was half a statement and half a cry, those simple words bursting from her, as unstoppable as they were undeniable. Her courage had failed her so many times before but now as his arms closed around her and she pressed her hot cheek against his shoulder, she felt fearless.

How long had she locked away these words? How long had she denied herself and him this most basic truth, fighting her very nature as an Elf?

"I love you," she uttered again, softer, and a kind of relief swept over her until she was laughing and crying at the same time, his shirt fisted in her hands. He already knew it—he must have known it all along—so why did it still mean so much? And yet it did. From the way his heart raced against hers, she knew it did. His warm lips pressed against her temple and she felt him smooth back her hair. His shoulders trembled faintly beneath her hands and she worried for a moment until she realized he was laughing silently too, as he threaded his fingers through her hair and crushed her against him.

What a pair of sorry fools they made. All the emotional highs and lows of the last three days caught up with her suddenly, until Sariel realized just how exhausted she felt. Yet at the same time, her strength seemed somehow renewed, as if the unstinting love that Legolas gave her ran through her veins as a kind of elixir.

"You gave me a reason to keep fighting," she told him. There were so many things she found that she could suddenly speak of now, when she had never dared to before. "My world started changing after I met you and I struggled against it out of fear. I did not even understand what was happening or why I could not kill you, not even to save myself. Not even to save my family."

Her head was tucked under his chin again and the position was so familiar to them that she closed her eyes so that she would not cry. Memories flooded her mind, each detail as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. This secret, she had kept completely to herself. Only she knew the truth of that life-altering moment.

"That night… I did not miss, Legolas. That night, my stiletto should have found and pierced your heart, whether or not you had woken to see it." Sariel took a deep breath, feeling how still he had become. "_I did not miss_," she repeated, and could never have imagined his response.

"I know," he said. She lifted her head enough to see that his irises were a stormy blue. "Sariel, I have always known."

For a moment, it was as though everything she knew was subtly shifting. Yet there was still more to her past and she would hold nothing back now. "Then you should also know that everyone knows what Belderon did to me. Legolas, they all know _everything_ I let him do to me."

She heard him suck in a breath and his arms tensed around her until they felt like steel bands holding her. Rather than fearing the force, she welcomed it. His embrace was holding her together when she might fly into pieces.

"Do you think I care about what others think, Sariel?" he demanded hoarsely. "The only thing I care about is how this hurts you and how you continue to blame yourself. There was no part of you that was willing."

Though Legolas would believe otherwise, she knew it was something that perhaps would never have a clear truth. She had been too much under Belderon's influence, even then, and had merely fulfilled all his plans. What she had done had seemed rational to her at the time, but knowing now what things would follow her decision, she knew it had been a stupid and meaningless sacrifice for her to make.

Yet she did not want to live perpetually in regret, so there was more that she needed to say. It took all of her courage, but she knew she needed to explain, not just to him, but also to herself.

"The reason I chose to live, even afterward…" she began slowly. Despite herself, Sariel began to shiver and she pressed herself harder against Legolas, not for warmth but for comfort. In her mind, she heard the Elf again, asking _else why would she be here_? Here was the answer, to the only person who had the right to hear it.

She exhaled gradually, gathering her resolve and choosing her words carefully. "Legolas, from the very beginning, you gave me a dream of a more beautiful reality than the one that I lived. No matter what happened, just knowing you made me realize that there were still things that were noble and good, so I could hope one day to become better than I was, too. That was why I was able to live, but if..."

Sariel still faltered here. Her cheeks burned and she would have pulled away if he had not been holding her so firmly. Again, she was aware of just how great the distance was between them, even in this. He was a prince and she was...worse than nothing. Some days, she felt as though Belderon's touch was visible on her skin, worse than any scars.

"Sariel?" The concern in his voice nearly undid her.

Legolas was looking at her intensely, hardly breathing. His face was filled with strong emotion and now that she could name it as love, it gave her the ability to continue. Whatever else happened, he loved her.

"If you have held back because you do not…" she swallowed carefully, "want me that way, I understand."

There was shock in his gaze, which quickly dissolved into a mix of other feelings. His voice was low and fierce, his reply almost immediate. "If you believe that I have desired you less for any reason, then know that my only fear is that I will cause you to remember what he did to you."

Sariel's breath caught in her throat. There was a flare of longing in his eyes that made her wonder how she could have doubted that he wanted her as much as she wanted him. "You are nothing like him and will never be. Legolas, will you have my last memory always be of him?"

"No," he answered simply, and then he kissed her.

They had come to this point before and had stepped back each time, fearful of the consequences. It had never been the right time, even when the knowledge that it might be the last time they saw each other alive hovered in both of their minds. Too much had remained unresolved between them. Even now, as she unfastened the leaf brooch of his cloak, her desire was tempered by the knowledge that this would not change everything. As he shed his cloak and carelessly let it drop to join the myriad of things littering on the floor, she could see that Legolas knew, too.

"Are you sure?" he asked, even as she kissed the line of his jaw. The question was nearly forgotten by both as their lips met again and he kissed her without the least sign of restraint.

"Yes," she said breathlessly when they broke apart an eternity later. She made a sound that was almost a growl, frustrated by the complex lacing of his suede jerkin. His eyes shone with silent amusement and he obligingly helped her, his hands brushing against hers in a way that made her heart skip a beat, these chaste touches the prelude to something more.

Legolas shrugged out of the jerkin, leaving him in only his thin silvery shirt. The small silver clasps that fastened the shirt together was next, coming undone beneath her fingers. The gap between the fabric revealed the irresistibly smooth skin of his throat and chest. Sariel's arms circled around him and they both gasped when her hands found the edge of his shirt and slid up beneath, ghosting over the hot, bare skin of his back. He shuddered under her touch and then with his hands on her waist, he drew her with him until the backs of his knees touched the edge of her bed.

She looked at him, her tone almost playful, though the question was sincere. "Is this what you want, too?"

"Yes," he breathed, meeting her gaze steadily, his emotions transparent. "Sariel, you know that I am yours. Are you mine?"

The teasing was gone from her voice as she heard the gravity in his strangely formal words. "I have always been yours, Legolas."

He released a breath that he had not known he had been holding and cupped her face in his hands, his gaze never wavering. "As I am yours, always."

Sariel looked at him with a little confusion but when he dropped kisses down the side of her throat, starting from her just below her ear, she lost herself to the sensation. So many things had separated them, but this one time, none of it mattered. For so long, either he or she had resisted this, but now nothing was between them, not even themselves.

Gently he began to divest her of her clothing, a piece at a time, just as she continued to do so to him. Then finally Legolas was bare before her, the light falling on pale skin and blending scars away, though she traced over them with her fingertips, knowing some were from her and some for her. She was losing her mind but he was ecstasy to touch, all heated, silken skin over muscle. She might have been content to simply lay with him, bare skin to bare skin, reveling in the feelings as she ran her fingers over the lean contours of his body and through the length of his hair. It was the palest gold-silver in the dark and matched the soft light around them.

Sariel was uncertain of what he would think of her, of her flawed, scarred body, but during his own explorations, his hands stroked tenderly over her back and his eyes were bright with regret and love. With that, she found that she was still beautiful to the only person who mattered, and knew with certainty that the scars that would be hers forever had lost the power to hurt her.

Legolas fell back onto the bed, one of his hands holding hers so that she followed in a rather ungraceful tumble of limbs. Then any thoughts of awkwardness disappeared, his hands cupping her breasts until she leaned into his touch, too overwhelmed by the heated sensation to be hesitant any longer. She pressed her body fully against his, desire running through her body like liquid fire, and reveled in his soft moan when she shifted experimentally on top of him, aligning them even closer together. She was lost, her fears forgotten, erased by the reality of him, finally so near that they were almost one.

It became a challenge, to see what he would let her do to him and what responses she could draw from him, and just when Sariel was beginning to smile in triumph, he turned them both over. Being pinned beneath him was not altogether a new experience, but prior to this, it had always been when they were both fully clothed, and usually in the middle of training. Now she found herself gasping as he returned her attentions with fervor and wondered how they could have ever denied each other this.

"I love you," Legolas said huskily, lips against the hollow of her throat, and when he raised his head, she saw his wonder that it could be said.

She only whispered his name back, but it was affirmation enough as he joined their bodies together at last. For a moment the sensation was too much and her body could not decide whether to interpret it as pain or pleasure. Then she realized that this was Legolas—this was _Legolas_, and they were together in a way that she could not have even imagined. He was a part of her, his heart thundering against hers, and the emotional and physical joy of it was so intimately intertwined that she nearly lost herself in the feelings.

They kissed, and it was the taste of completion, addictive and exhilarating. Legolas held himself still but she felt herself arching beneath him, driving him deeper within her, their bodies fitting so perfectly and closely together that she cried out his name. Beneath the skin of his back, she felt sleek muscles tense under her hands and he murmured some indistinguishable prayer. With her encouragement, he rocked against her, his breath hitching as she clenched hard around him.

Dimly she heard her own moan and his sharper gasp as the pleasure spiraled out of control. She shuddered against him, the sensations tunneling from inside out. In the midst of it she had closed her eyes, but when she opened them again, Legolas was looking at her, his lips parted. He might have said _I love you _or it might have been a message between their hearts that did not need the medium of speech.

She was still riding out the last blissful shocks when he found his own release and then she understood the look of awe that had crossed his face, for she thought there never been anything so incredibly beautiful as seeing him in the grip of such intense pleasure. To know that she was a part of it and the cause of it.

As they struggled to even out their breathing, his hand found hers shyly, palm meeting palm, and then their fingers interlaced. Spread out over her pillow, the locks of their hair were in startling contrast, dark and light. All Sariel could do was rest her head on his shoulder, telling herself the night would never end.

But morning came and the slowly rising sun was inexorable in its journey. Everything had changed and yet nothing had changed enough.

* * *

He had gone for a very early morning ride and had come back expecting a quiet stable. Leading Síla Elen back to his horse's designated stall, Lianderthral felt a moment of irritation when he saw what had disturbed the animals. Two Elves were arguing right outside of Myste's stall, causing Sariel's normally calm filly to move around restlessly within, her agitation reflecting the tone of the raised voices.

It would be rude to intervene, although Lianderthral hoped that the disagreement would soon come to an end if only for the sake of the horses. He led Síla Elen past the Elves, politely concealing his surprise at such a rare public display of discord. The two did not appear to notice him, telling him more than anything else how heated their quarrel had become. As he gave his horse a brushing, he could only be thankful that the thick walls of the stall muffled the Elves' voices.

Still, when he left Síla Elen, he saw that the proud roan in the next stall that had caught his admiring eye was behaving temperamentally, so Lianderthral lingered, thinking to soothe the beast if he could. It was not until he heard Sariel's name mentioned that he paid any serious attention to the subject of the argument and looked out of the corner of his eye at the two Elves.

"It is our duty to inform the prince and obtain his approval, if it is true that Lady Sariel has made plans to depart Eryn Lasgalen," one of the Elves said, his dark grey eyes flashing with ire. His unusual auburn hair, almost a match for the coat of the high-strung roan, was memorable and familiar. Even so, Lianderthral could not quite recall his name or position. The Elves generally did not put much value on the use of titles and Sariel more than most was simply known by name, so the stranger's respectful use of the honorific before Sariel's name, even in the argument, spoke volumes about him.

After listening for a few moments, Lianderthral thought he understood what the dispute was about. The other Elf, bearing bow and quiver on his back, was arguing that Sariel was not of Eryn Lasgalen and that whatever was between her and the prince was strictly personal. It was not their obligation to intervene if the lady in question decided to leave Eryn Lasgalen, even if it was without the prince's knowledge.

Having heard enough, Lianderthral all but stepped in between the two, finally drawing their attention to his presence. The Elves stopped talking abruptly, and guilt crossed the armed Elf's face before he took a closer look at Lianderthral and realized that he was not his prince. Though well used to the reaction after his time spent in Eryn Lasgalen, Lianderthral still might have been slightly annoyed, if he had not been so worried about what he had overheard. Even after being identified accurately, judging by the awkward silence, both of the other Elves knew about his close friendship with Sariel.

Turning to the grey-eyed Elf he had recognized, Lianderthral spoke as calmly as he could, although his mind was racing with questions. "How did you know that Lady Sariel is leaving?" he asked, watching both closely. Perhaps it was only a mistaken rumor, maliciously spread by those who, indeed, would like nothing better if Sariel was ushered out of Eryn Lasgalen.

The Elf looked uneasy, exchanging glances with his companion rather than directly answering. Although the two had been quarreling, Lianderthral recognized the look now and knew it for tacit agreement. They would unite against him if it were necessary; he was the outsider here. It was something serious then.

"I am Líron, the stablemaster here," the first Elf introduced himself, "and my friend is Amarthand, in the service of the king's defense."

Lianderthral nodded to them with due respect, noting that Líron had downplayed both their importance, but accepted it as modesty rather than deception. In truth, he recognized the name Amarthand; the Elf had been commended for his leadership during the war. "I believe you know who I am already. Pray tell, what gave you reason to think that Sariel would be departing?"

Amarthand answered first. "She asked Líron yesterday afternoon whether her filly would be fit for a long journey. When Líron said the horse was in good health, she asked him to have her ready this morning."

Lianderthral's heart sank. He knew Sariel had been thinking about leaving for weeks, and his encounter with Legolas yesterday had made him realize that the prince was perhaps more willing to give her up than he had expected. They both knew that Sariel was deeply unhappy here, where others saw her the worst of criminals. Still, he had never expected her to suddenly decide to leave without even telling him first.

"Is Prince Legolas aware of her plans?"

Líron looked away and Amarthand's gaze dropped as well when he replied. "We do not believe so, though it may be otherwise."

* * *

Legolas woke in slow degrees to a morning that seemed more beautiful than any other had been in his life. His eyes were closed as he drifted toward consciousness, out of a dream that kept slipping just out of his grasp. The sheets were warm and his limbs were loose and languid despite the small prickle of unease that stirred in his heart. Soft, bare skin brushed against his as the bed shifted slightly and desire stirred in his blood as Sariel's body moved. The sudden absence of heat and softness awoke him completely as he realized that she was trying to move away from the protective semicircle of his body curled around hers.

He opened his eyes to find that she had risen and was dressing quickly, her quiet movements not quite as silent as they perhaps could be. She was fully clothed within moments and began to braid her hair even as she watched. Though Legolas had seen her do so probably a hundred times before, he could not shake the feeling of sick certainty that suddenly filled him. He sat up, having nothing more than the sheets loosely wrapped around his waist for modesty.

"Sariel…" He wanted to tell her to be careful, for she was walking with bare feet and there were still blue glass shards littered all over the floor, along with splintered wood and more. But his thought faded away as he watched her pick up her scattered items, giving equal attention to weapons and clothing alike.

"What are you doing?" he asked numbly. The trickle of dread that he had felt had magnified a thousand times and he was afraid he knew exactly what she was doing.

Sariel turned to look at him and stopped moving, still holding two thick books in her hands. Her face was expressionless, but her eyes were red and glassy with liquid. They remained frozen where they were, staring at each other, for a long time.

"Good morning," she finally greeted him softly, and then turned away to drop the two books into her saddlebags. He could not find his voice to reply. She bent to pick up a cloak and shook it out, broken glass falling out in a brief, crystal rain. Then she neatly refolded it and bent slightly to put it away in the same bag.

Her face was wet with tears but she continued gathering her things silently, aware of his heavy gaze on her, yet saying nothing. She reached for another cloak on the floor and suddenly drew her hand back with a hiss. Pretending that nothing had happened, she reached for it again.

Before he had thought about it, he was up and standing before her, taking the cloak from her and setting it on the table. He caught her hand with his own and opening her fingers so that he could see her palm. As he had guessed, a small glass piece had bitten deeply enough into her skin that the blood was welling freely. Her palm was scabbed and rust colored with older, dried blood. He caught her other hand as well and turned it palm up to see the same crescent-shaped cuts.

Legolas could guess exactly when it had been that she had clenched her fists hard enough for her fingernails to break her own skin. His lips pressed together in a thin line, he let go of her hands. She had meant to pack bandaging in her saddlebags and he took it from the table now and wetted a length of it. She stood silently but unresisting as he first cleaned the cuts on her palms and then expertly wrapped them.

When he was done, a stifled sob broke free of her throat. She drew back her hands and covered her face as she wept. Without saying anything, Legolas picked up the charm bracelet from where it had rested in the folds of the green dress. He undid the clasp and slid the silver links around her slender wrist, fastening the bracelet just as he had once done before. She could feel what he was doing and her shoulders shook with fresh sobs. She gasped for breath, struggling hard to better control her tears.

"Do you regret what we shared?" Legolas asked as calmly as he could.

She met his gaze with her own teary one. "I will never regret it."

Despite her firm reply, he was looking at her almost desperately. "Sariel, you do not fully understand. What we said to each other last night—"

"I cannot stay, Legolas, not as I am," she said interrupted gently, but her voice was shaking. She saw the demand in his eyes, his denial. "You know why. Will you force me to list all the reasons?"

"No, I would not," he answered softly, but still determinedly. "But I love you, and I am yours, Sariel, and I will be yours forever."

There was an echo in his words of what they had said to each other during the night. Sariel looked down, staring unseeingly at the bracelet that encircled her wrist. "Time and endurance," she said from memory. "They are the greatest gifts that have been given to our race, and with these two things, all things may be changed."

"Not this," he fiercely claimed. He kissed her and she let herself kiss him back, the salt of her tears adding a new flavor to the intimacy. "Never this."

She closed her eyes so that she would not have to see how much she was hurting him. "I have never asked anything of you," she said, and she could hear the breath that he inhaled. "But I wish you would do this one last thing for me. For us." Her voice wavered with emotion and she ruthlessly steadied it. "Let me go, Legolas. Just let me go."

He was losing her, and he could not think of what to say that could possibly bring her back. There had to be something to make her change her mind, to convince her that it was all right. The truth was on his lips, but it would mean nothing to her at this point. "This is your choice, then?"

The question was harsh and as Legolas had expected, she said nothing. He turned away from her, remembering his earlier resolve, when he had thought to let her go without a single word of love. As angry and betrayed as he felt, he knew she was right. He had to let her go; he had to set her free so that she could find her own happiness.

"Then you will have your wish." He walked away from her and Sariel grimly continued packing in silence. When she looked up, he was sitting on the edge of her bed, hunched over with his head buried in his hands, concealing his face from her.

It did not take long at all. Legolas looked up when she had finished and had carried the full bags to the door in the other room. Despite himself, he rose to his feet and followed her, only stopping abruptly when she turned around, warning him not to come closer with a single glance.

"Sariel…" The words hovered on the tip of his tongue: _where are you going? _But all he could say was, "Will you come back?"

She looked at the rich wood grain of the door rather than look at him. The many growth rings attested to the great age of the tree that had yielded the wood. Sariel stared at them until they blurred before her eyes.

"Forget about me, Legolas," she said, and knew that it was the cruelest request she could have made of him. To deny that they had ever shared anything, after they had finally shared everything... She was breaking his heart and she knew it, because she was breaking her own, too.

"I wish I had never fallen in love with you," Legolas told her.

He did not mean it. But he wanted her to think that he regretted it. He wanted her to know that he would have rather remained in that tortured half state of denial than to have her resolve that the way was too hard altogether. If she wanted to claim even his memories, if she wanted to deny even the most important vows they had made to each other, then he would have her believe that he would willingly erase everything, too.

Her eyes were still on the door, unable to read the truth or lie in his. Her hand turned the knob and pushed the door wide open.

"Forget about me," Sariel said again, in the same tone, and he watched as she grabbed her bags, walked through the doorway, and disappeared from view.

The door was still open and Legolas was numb and motionless, the utter absence of sound engulfing him. He waited for her to return, for her to say that she could not do it, could not really still choose to leave because she could not bear the life she would have with him. _Would it make a difference if I fought this?_ he had asked her.

He waited and the door remained open, but she never appeared.

* * *

Hearing Myste's familiar low whicker of greeting as she stepped into the filly's stall sent a rush of strong emotion through Sariel, the first that she could allow herself to feel. Here was the last reminder of her days with Belderon: a horse that had once carried her on her assignments as a kept assassin and that had later accompanied her through snow and rain and heartbreak. She was Sariel's oldest friend and the only one who remained with her now, ready to go wherever her mistress commanded her to go, patient and uncritical in the way that animals were.

Sariel had vaguely expected to feel heartbroken, or perhaps numb, but it seemed as if she were beyond both those stages. Her hands might have been unsteady as she tied the saddlebags in place, but though her resolve had almost failed her many times before, she hung onto her composure by a tenuous thread. It hurt in an utterly silent way that felt as if something were squeezing her heart tightly and mercilessly.

Her knees felt weak so she put her hand on Myste's withers for a moment, balancing herself in more ways than one. Somewhere deep inside, Sariel knew that she was delaying, hoping for something or someone to intervene and take away the choice from her again, to make things both more difficult to act on and simpler to quietly accept. It was a new sensation, to be responsible for herself, to take control of her own destiny for the first time in her life.

"Freedom," she whispered to Myste, seeing the filly's ears turn toward her at the sound of her voice. How many times had she repeated this one word to herself, until it felt as if it pulsed through her blood with every beat of her heart? "I began with a simple wish, to be free from Belderon...and now I understand that it is not enough, after all."

Because she had asked Legolas to let her go—had chosen to end it between them by leaving. She knew it was the right thing to do, but it did not make it any easier, especially knowing that she was taking an irreversible step towards...what, exactly?

The stables were thankfully deserted when Sariel finally led Myste out.

"You truly mean to do this, Sariel?" The familiar voice had her whirling around, although her filly remained untroubled. At the sight of Lianderthral standing close by, Sariel kept her head held high, willing her composure not to shatter. She had not sent word to him at all, first because she told herself that he deserved to be told in person, and then because she had been unable to face him at all.

"I have thought of this for a long time," she told him. He nodded, making her wonder if he had come to stop her or urge her to leave.

"What did he do to you?" Only at that did she realize that Lianderthral was suppressing an immense anger—not at her, she thought, but at Legolas. Yet her own controlled calm had bemused him; he guessed that something had happened, but had no idea what. It saddened her to think that he was always so careful of her feelings.

"Nothing," Sariel answered, "that I did not wish." She led Myste forward with the reins in her right hand, until they stood out in the bright morning light. Lianderthral stood besides her, looking like an uncertain avenging angel, and it struck her suddenly just how true her words were.

"Then have you determined where you will go, Sariel?"

Her first thought had been Lothlórien, where her mother Lorianiel had so longed to return, and where Galadriel perhaps would allow her to stay, for she was originally an Elf of Lórien. Vanidar would be there, and Haldir as well. She would not be entirely alone. Lothlórien, the dream of the blossom…it could have been a sanctuary.

But Lothlórien was fading and Sariel could not forget where she had received the scars on her back. If she could not bear the cool glances of Elves, such as those she received here, how could she bear making herself into an object of pity there? Though the place called to her, the Elves would not welcome her. Galadriel's public punishment of her and the extraordinary outburst of Sariel's powers afterward ensured that she would not be easily forgotten or forgiven.

There was another reason, too, which she did not want to admit. Lórien was a place of dangerous memories: her mother's death, the wrath of the Elves, and her attempt to kill Legolas. She had passed happy days with Legolas beneath the ancient, moss-covered mallorn-trees, but she had spent days there in deception, as an assassin, as well. No, she would not be welcome there.

"Back," she finally answered softly. "Back home."

It took a moment for him to realize what she mean, for they both knew that there was nowhere that she might call truly home. "To Nenuial?" Lianderthral exclaimed. "_No!_ Sariel, how could you even think to go back there?"

"I belong there," she stated, with a certain simplicity. "Lessena and my mother are buried besides the lake, and the place still stands, inhospitable as it may be at first."

He was ready to argue, but Sariel was curiously confident that she could wear him down. Whether it was Nenuial or some other place, what did she have to lose, now of all times? But Lianderthral clearly reined in his outburst and instead spoke with reasonable calm.

"Even should you wish you go back to Nenuial, there are good reasons why you should not," he said. "There is no guarantee that all of Belderon's orcs and beasts came to Eryn Lasgalen during the war. Some may still remain at the lake."

"I am more than able of taking care of myself," Sariel retorted. "You know this, Lianderthral. Those orcs and beasts were my victims during training."

He tried another line of logic. "Would you not be haunted by the memories of what had happened to you there? Why do this to yourself? It will drive you mad."

Sariel made no reply, for some part of her might welcome such punishment. Somewhere inside, she felt she deserved it. Unaware of her inner turmoil, Lianderthral continued. "The land is barren and it would be sheer folly to choose to live in such isolation. It cannot even be called living, Sariel."

"So says the Elf who chose to dwell alone by himself," she countered, though there was no sting to her words.

"And _you _know why," Lianderthral replied.

"Because you were afraid to hurt others," Sariel acknowledged. "As I am."

"There is some difference between having uncontrolled, unknown powers and having the skill and training of an assassin," he said with sarcastic understatement. When she remained silent, he sighed.

"It would be no use to dissuade you without offering another solution," he said, voice soft. The honesty in his green eyes made her want to look away, but he had anticipated her reaction. His hand came up to cup her chin, tilting her face so that she met his gaze directly. With anyone else Sariel would have been uncomfortable with the touch, but she trusted him utterly, though there would never be anything more between them. They both had known it for a long time, but she understood it even more now.

"Come with me," he suggested. "If you must leave, come with me to my home."

She looked into his dark green eyes and realized that she had underestimated this other half of her soul. For a moment, she let herself imagine it. He would give her freedom—not the terrifying freedom of freefall, of nothingness, but a freedom that might teach her who she was. He would give her his time, his compassion, and yes, his love.

It was this that decided it for her. "I cannot, Lianderthral."

"Then at least let me go with you. Sariel, I know well where your heart lies," he told her patiently, "and I ask to be by your side as a separate matter. You are already grieving and I do not want to see you in more pain. Will you not let me help you?"

She had once thought that she could love him, and she did, but not in the way that he wanted or needed. Yet Lianderthral had never been less than gracious, even when she had been confused as to where her heart lay. She could remember the night when he had spoken of soulmates to her, subtly indicating to Legolas that he was relinquishing any claim to her, though she had understood it only in retrospect. He had never been selfish in his love of her, and it was this same selflessness that caused him to say these things to her now.

And how could she refuse him? She was afraid of going back to Nenuial, afraid of spending out endless days haunted by memories of people—Belderon, Lorianiel, Lessena—until her spirit finally faded, granting her release. It would be a form of passive suicide, and though she knew herself to be flawed in many ways, she had never quietly accepted defeat. She was unafraid of death in battle, but she did not want to linger on, slowly giving up parts of her soul until she broke entirely.

_But is it fair to depend on Lianderthral, to take advantage of his support, when I could offer him nothing in return?_

She stroked Myste's proudly arched neck, giving herself time to speak past the lump in her throat. "Lianderthral," she said. "I cannot do this to you. I have already hurt too many who have cared for me." Such an understatement, when she so vividly remembered Legolas from this morning, the look on his face when he had realized she was leaving. Her heart contracted at the image that she held in her mind.

"I wish I could set you free from me," she said, her voice breaking. Lianderthral looked at her, eyes reflecting her pain with his own, the startling sunlight-on-tree-leaves color darkening as if the sun over the forest had disappeared.

"As Legolas is setting you free?" he asked gently.

She turned her face away and did not answer for a long time, her shoulders shaking with subdued sobs. Lianderthral reached out anyway, keeping his hand extended. Finally Sariel looked at him again, her eyes red-rimmed and tired in her pale face. She placed her bandaged hand in his.

He knew her reply before she said it. He could see her acquiescence reflected in eyes so dark a blue as to be nearly black. Lianderthral had anticipated this as best he could; he did not have many belongings of his own and as with Sariel, it had not taken him long to prepare for a journey.

Now he silently led Síla Elen out and they exited the stables together. He became conscious for the first time of the many eyes furtively watching them. Silently, he boosted Sariel into her saddle, though she could have easily mounted herself. Her weight on his interlaced fingers was fleeting, as if the contact had never been made at all. It took him just a moment himself before he was ready.

Riding ahead of him, Sariel's green-grey cloak made her almost disappear into the background of the forest, but she sat straight and well in the saddle. Like a blade, Lianderthral thought, like the underlying strength beneath the airy, intricate patterns created by the tree branches, leaves, and sunlight.

"Where shall we go?" he asked her.

"Anywhere," she whispered, but he heard her clearly. "Take me anywhere."

* * *

.

* * *

A/N: I wrote the chapter and named it "Anywhere" before I discovered the song of the same name by Evanescence. Over the years, I've only grown more fond of the song, and I feel it fits the story fairly well, enough to even change the chapter title to match a part of the lyrics. There's actually a fanmade music video of it featuring Aragorn/Arwen up on YouTube, if you're curious enough to check out the song.

**Thank you** all for being such great readers. Please review and check my author profile for updates on when I will next post!

_Finalized February 2011_


	30. The Autumn Equinox

** Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

**Important Notes**: Yes, the chapter title has changed. I revised this chapter and rewrote the last five pages since I was so unhappy with what I'd written from (gulp!) way back then. I took out unnecessary description and added some action, so hopefully it's tighter and bit faster paced, although this is always going to be expository. It's a bridge chapter to the last plot arc. Overall, I think this leads into the rest of the story better and there is some rather strong foreshadowing.

Translations

Rhovansûl: wild wind; _rhovan_ meaning wild, _sûl_ describing wind (S)

cúron: the crescent moon (S)

melethril: a female lover (S)

* * *

**Chapter 30: The Autumn Equinox**

* * *

_It had been almost too easy to slip past the border scouts and make her way to Thranduil's palace. The only difficulty that Sariel had encountered came when she learned that her target had already left. She tracked him to his current home near southern Mirkwood, just before the division created by the Old Forest Road. _

_The change in location was a blessing in disguise. Few chose to venture closer to the darkness spreading from Dol Goldur, so the Elf's death might go unnoticed for days. With any luck Sariel would be far away when, or even if, they found his body. On the return journey to Nenuial, she could pass through Imladris, where her next target was located, and familiarize herself with the place. Belderon had only given her a scant description of her next intended victim. Imladris would also be more difficult to penetrate than the besieged Mirkwood. _

_C__alm stole over her as she waited for nightfall, meticulously cleaning the weapons she had selected for tonight's task. As always, she had her twin blades and her stiletto in its plain black sheath. The blade was thin and narrow, looking more like a child's toy than a weapon. It was still was of the finest quality, a true work of art in both function and aesthetics. The sinuous dragon engraved in a spiral around the handle was detailed enough that individual scales could be seen. The dragon's wings were delicate, but they formed a wickedly dangerous guard that would prevent others from easily wielding the blade, should it fall into the wrong hands. _

_Only two months ago, __Belderon had presented it to her after her first ritual blood-oath. The rose and dragon symbol of her family was etched upon one side of the blade, while the other had Sarati script for the words Life and Death. It was odd that Belderon had chosen that particular design rather than his own, but perhaps it was his way of reminding her that he had her family in his grasp._

_She was just a shadow in the forest as she headed toward her destination with all the eerie stealth of a predator stalking its prey. The window was unlit and within moments she had ascertained the lack of life within. Sariel ran sensitive fingertips across the wood, noting the faint tremble of her hands with disgust. Belderon would have punished her for it, but her master was not here. She hoisted herself onto the windowsill and entered the room, keeping to the natural darkness in the corners as she waited for the Elf to return._

_Quiet__ footsteps neared the room and Sariel slowed her breath, devoid of any emotion. She felt no uncertainty, not even the anxiety that she had expected to battle. It was just like a training session. The Elf was unaware of the danger he was in and even seemed distracted as he took off his cloak. She watched as he lit a candle and sat down at the table near the center of the room._

_He took out several pieces of parchment covered with beautiful charcoal sketches. As he bent over them, Sariel circled behind him, aware that should he think to look, the shadowy edges of her moving form would be visible to his sharp Elven eyesight. The onyx eyes of her dragon glittered with malice as she slipped the blade from its sheath. She was already in the perfect position behind him, stiletto in hand, when he surprised her by turning his head to look at the window._

_Sariel froze in place, wondering if he had sensed her presence. But Rhovansûl—or rather, her target, as she was never to think of him as a person—simply gazed outside. To her astonishment, he wrote something on the parchment and began to sketch the forest view outside the window with swift, skilled lines. He was so absorbed by his work that he did not even notice her right behind him. She took a moment to contemplate the situation._

_There were only three places above the shoulders on the body that were __assuredly fatal when stabbed. Of course, there were other, faster ways to kill, but Belderon had been very specific. She was to use the stiletto and she was to refrain from administering the killing wound through his back. With those instructions in mind, Sariel had planned to use an upward thrust from underneath his chin so that his upper and lower jawbones would guide the blade right into the brain. _

_However, her target was currently bent over his drawings. It would be easier to stab down in the hollow of the collarbone, which would cause massive internal bleeding, unstoppable by any amount of external pressure. This second method brought the victim to death within minutes but was less efficient, all things considered. Sariel did not relish the thought of waiting for her victim die, yet neither did she want to prolong the wait before her killing strike. _

_Her left hand slipped around his head from the left to forcefully cover his mouth as she executed a brutal thrust downward with the stiletto clenched in her right hand. The thin blade pierced effortlessly through the soft tissues as she felt the Elf convulse in shock and pain. Muffled sounds escaped him, but she had checked the surroundings and __they were__ very much alone. All his struggling would only help quicken his passage to death. She removed the stiletto to speed up the bleeding, eliciting another stifled cry. _

_Maintaining her pose__, her standing position and training giving her superior strength over the weakening Elf, Sariel glanced dispassionately down over the Elf's shoulder at the half-finished sketch. Her eyes narrowed in consternation._

_He had drawn a female figure in the trees, walking towards the window. Out of reflex, Sariel glanced up to check the window, but the view was as she expected. He had chosen his own sort of exile here, but perhaps he had been lonely for companionship? Or had he somehow known that his death would arrive through the window and in the form of a female Elf? _

_Some of Sariel's calm disintegrated and a chill ran down her spine. This was her first kill. She was stealing the life of one of the Eldar, one who was physically immune to the ravages of time, like herself._

_NO! __she told herself sharply. He was not like her at all. He would die and she would live. The strong did what they will and the weak suffered what they must; that was the way of the world. If the price of her family's continued existence was his life, then so be it. She was willing to become every bit as ruthless as her Master demanded. _

_Yet there was always one option left to her: if Sariel did not want to become an assassin, she could take her own life. In her place, Lessena would have done so. But Belderon h__ad chosen the older sister. He had seen deeply into her soul, had glimpsed the cold, unbending steel of her core, and he had known that she would be a weapon perfect for his purpose. Had Sariel been a little less courageous, she might have chosen death—her death, over others' deaths. But what might have been a virtue in an ordinary Elf had been twisted into something else in her. _

_Sariel forced herself to focus on the Elf before her. Her victim was weakening and she wished that his body would give up the inevitable fight a little faster. Preoccupied with her thoughts, she did not realize the significance of the artwork's title until it was too late._

_There was a light knock as she read the scrawled words—Cúron Melethril, crescent moon lover. _

"_Rhovan__sûl? Are you sketching again?" _

_The door to the room opened even as the dying Elf in Sariel's grip jerked at the sound of the v__oice, just enough that a gasp issued from his lips. She let go of him and spun around, both of her knives already drawn before the intruder came into her line of sight. _

_Without hesitation, Sariel threw herself toward the newcomer, knowing that she had the advantage of surprise. Her body moved into attack before her mind had finished forming a plan of assault and she threw one knife, aiming for the white flash of unprotected throat that she had glimpsed. _

_She missed__. The blade buried itself in the wooden frame of the door. _

_As if her __inexcusable mistake were a signal, Sariel halted abruptly in her rush towards the Elf, her panicked thoughts overriding both training and muscle memory. _

_The stranger was frozen in surprise, no doubt from Sariel's hellish appearance—her eyes gleamed and her twin blades shone golden red from the candlelight behind her, which so warmly illuminated __Rhovan__sûl dead body. The female Elf's dark eyes stared uncomprehendingly at __her lover's corpse__ for a moment before they hardened and turned to Sariel, who was a few paces away. _

_The pure fury and vengeance that flashed across her face was shocking. Sariel stood unmoving as the Elf closed the distance between them. But __Rhovan__sûl's lover was fundamentally different from Sariel. Her hand rose up in a blow meant to cause severe harm, not to kill. She had recognized her opponent as an Elf and although she had just witnessed Sariel in an act of murder, for her to turn on someone of her own race went against everything she knew. _

_Out of pure reflex, Sariel stepped back, and then saw the unprotected opening left by the wide swing of the other's arm.__ As the Elf rushed at her again, Sariel evaded her and stabbed upward. Her knife was driven between the Elf's ribs and pierced her heart with lethal precision._

_Immediately the Elf began to collapse toward her. Sariel staggered at the sudden weight and fell backward before she could let go of her knife. They fell together in a tangle of limbs even as Sariel frantically tried to push her away, feeling hot blood gushing onto her in the most sickening way. The Elf gave a final convulsion just as __Rhovan__sûl had. She died silently, but Sariel, beneath her, felt it all through her body._

_She shoved hard at the dead body that lay like a lover's on top of hers, gasping with terror and exertion when it would not move. Those limbs were too heavy, trapping her—how could this Elf possibly be so heavy? Her viscous blood was still soaking through every layer of clothing and dark strands of the her hair fell over Sariel's face. _

_Her hands grasped helplessly at the female Elf's limp and heavy arms, slippery from the cooling blood. A shrill, terrified cry burst from Sariel's mouth when she realized that somehow, she could not get out from underneath that dead embrace…_

_Because Belderon had never ordered this death. It was a mistake. Sariel thrashed and screamed, unable to calm herself… It was all a mistake._

* * *

"Sariel." Rough hands were on her shoulders, shaking her, before they encircled her wrists in a viselike grip and pulled her up into a sitting position. "Wake up!"

She kept her eyes firmly shut and swallowed down the shrieks that built in her throat, knowing with certainty that she would meet the terrible gaze of the dead if she were to open them. The Elf had had dark brown eyes, but they were staring and empty, soulless. They terrified Sariel until all the strength seemed to have left her body. How long had she been trapped with the corpse?

"_Wake up!_" Her eyes finally snapped open at the sudden pain blooming on her cheek, so sharp that it instantly brought new tears to her eyes though her cheeks were already wet. She took a shuddering lungful of air from her prone position, forcing herself to push away the overwhelming terror.

Lianderthral was kneeling next to her, his green eyes guilty as he watched her wake. She lay silently for a few more minutes before her hand crept up to touch her still stinging face. It was not until then that she realized what he had done.

"Are you all right now?" he asked. "I am sorry for resorting to such an extreme, but you would not respond."

"I was caught in a dream," Sariel murmured. "Thank you for waking me." She closed her eyes again for a moment, the boundary between dreams and memory disintegrating, though both were mercilessly persistent. These nightmares—the flood of old memories rather than products of her imagination—had become alarmingly routine.

His eyes were worried and she could only guess how ill she probably looked. "You can tell me, you know. You might feel better after you speak about it."

For a moment, she was tempted. There was such understanding in his voice—the same empathy that allowed them this closeness in the first place, even when things might have been awkward between them. This was one secret that she would continue to keep, however, for Lianderthral of all people did not deserve the burden of her guilt.

"It was only a dream," she said as lightly as she could. "It is something from a long time ago, so I do not know why it came back to me now."

It had been a dream that had made her scream as if she were facing her greatest fears, but Lianderthral let the matter drop with only an offer. "If you wish to tell me someday, I will be here to listen, Sariel."

She nodded and lay back down, knowing that he would not let her take her watch later unless he felt that she had rested enough. Despite her prone position, Sariel had a hard time returning to sleep. She was exhausted, but her mind remained restless. Memories came back to her in a ceaseless stream, mostly undimmed by time. They were more welcome than thoughts of Legolas, but not by much.

In her era of bondage to Belderon, she had barely noticed the passing of each individual year but for the arrival and passage of spring. For that brief magical time when life was revived and newly created, she had climbed tree after tree, as eager to discover the birds' secret nests as an inquisitive child. She had never grown tired of the mysterious appearance of eggs, little round things that came speckled and smooth, with colors as gentle and unassuming as cream, or as brilliant as the blue of a robin's egg. There was so much life, concentrated in such an elegant and delicate package, waiting to hatch into ungainly, featherless chicks with their overlarge heads on wobbly necks.

The best part was when they were learning to fly. Sometimes she was there to witness it, though very rarely. The fledgling would perch at the very edge of the nest, and then, in a moment of bravery or mere instinct, let itself drop. A heartbeat later and the fledgling swoop back up, looking like its adult parents but with scruffier plumage. She had seen broken bodies underneath the nests, too, though she was never sure if those had died in an unsuccessful attempt at flight, or because of another cause.

It was the mystery of it that fascinated her, this ancient, secret rite of passage. How did the bird know how to lift itself on wings that had never been tried? Perched on the edge, how did they know where to go when their world had previously been limited to the nest? She spent hours wondering what they saw, felt, and thought in that terrifying moment when they were on their own, risking everything to fly or fall.

This was her moment now, and it felt as though she were falling endlessly.

* * *

They had not gone far the next day when a rider from Eryn Lasgalen intercepted them. From the condition of the Elf's steed, he had been riding hard. It could not have been easy to find them since no one could have known where Lianderthral and Sariel intended to go.

The rider drew alongside them and gestured for them to halt, his fair features expressionless. Looking into narrow blue eyes beneath fine eyebrows, Sariel felt invisible bands constrict around her chest. Had Legolas sent someone to ask her to come back? She focused on Lianderthral's voice was she swallowed down her turmoil.

"Amarthand," he greeted the rider in a neutral tone. "Why have you found us?"

An infinitesimal pause—an eternity—before she heard the Elf's smooth voice, sounding strange because the wind carried his words away from them. "My lord bid me carry something to you. To Lady Sariel," he clarified.

She turned her back to the rider with a half-accidental dig in Myste's side, knowing only in a blind moment of panic that she could not let Amarthand see her reactions, because he must have been handpicked by Legolas himself to do this. No doubt he was expected to give a full report when he returned to his prince.

"I will take it for her," she heard Lianderthral offer, buying her more time to compose herself.

"I am sorry, but what I carry is to be given into her hand," Amarthand said firmly. The polite, murmured words tore straight through her. Just how many of these exchanges had they had, through other people and other things, when it was too difficult to say the things they should have said to each other?

_No_, she wanted to tell Amarthand. _I will not accept this._ But the Elf was drawing close to her, gazing at her with concerned and perceptive eyes, and she felt a wave of dizziness pass through her. Myste, somehow aggravated by the horse that Amarthand was riding, sidestepped uneasily beneath her, both masking and exacerbating Sariel's vertigo.

"My lady?"

She had no reply for him. Lianderthral dismounted and she followed his example, though she felt even more unsteady when she was out of the saddle and tried to lean on Myste as discreetly as she could. It did not fool either of the Elves.

"She is exhausted," Amarthand said to Lianderthral even as he reached to support her, talking over her as if she could not hear him. Sariel could not bring herself to protest, though in light of all that she had experienced recently and her constant sleeplessness, it was not surprising that she was approaching the limits of her strength.

"What is it that you have come to give me?" she asked, perhaps more rudely than Amarthand had warranted.

He handed her a small black velvet pouch with a drawstring, although the intensity of his expression suggested that he knew its contents. Sariel would not have chosen to open it before the both of them, but Amarthand's expression made it clear that he was waiting for her to do so. She grimly met his gaze, determined to let him know that she would do this on her own terms.

Amarthand inclined his head in a gesture of assent and motioned for Lianderthral to follow him some distance away. Perhaps he had forgotten that her hearing was more enhanced than that of most Elves, because she could still hear their conversation.

"Legolas sent you?" Lianderthral asked, as if it could possibly be otherwise.

"The prince would never have willingly let her go, but she asked it of him. Can you not persuade her to return?"

Wishing that she could block their voices out, Sariel looked down at what she held. She opened the drawstring and tipped the contents of the pouch into her hand.

"Sariel has made her choice and I will not interfere," came her friend's voice coldly, though his words drifted on the wind.

"You know what this means and it may be common knowledge before long. Thranduil was not pleased, but he will accept it as the inevitable soon enough, especially because they have the support of the queen. Things will change, Lianderthral. He is already leading us in a new direction."

"She does not understand and Legolas did not take it upon himself to tell her before she left." Lianderthral's anger was evident, though if anything the sound of his voice grew fainter, as if he realized that Sariel was not out of earshot. "What would you have me do? I will protect her—yes, from him and from all of you, if necessary."

Sariel heard it all, but she was not listening. Her attention was fixed on the small thing that she held in her palm, a simple circle of wrought metal etched with haunting patterns. She could barely feel the weight of it in her hand.

It was a ring, of course. But she had never expected that he would leave her this, not after the way they had parted. It was strung on a very thin silver chain, long enough to be a necklace.

"I understand. I come not to stop you, but simply to entreat you," Amarthand was saying. "He did not have much hope even when he sent me, but wanted only to know her destination."

"So that he may attempt to find her?" was the retort.

There was a small piece of parchment with the ring. Sariel stared down at it. The Elvish was clear and bold on the creamy paper, so familiar that her heart ached.

"I cannot say," was the half-apologetic reply, "but his intentions are clear enough. He will not forsake her as she thinks he will. Beyond that, no one can say."

Sariel slipped both message and ring into the pouch and then walked over to join the other two, ending their supposedly covert discussion.

"Thank you, Amarthand. Forgive us, but we should be riding on before the day grows any later." Briefly she thought of giving back the pouch and its contents to him, to bring back to Legolas, but she could not force herself to do it.

A circle, a _ring_. It was a symbol of perfection and power, commitment and eternity. Sariel thought of Eros and of that ring, that time. She even thought of another ring, worn on a chain by a Halfling hero. But there was no mistaking that this was for her and her alone.

Amarthand took her dismissal graciously as Sariel hoisted herself up into Myste's saddle. They parted ways without much ado, the lone rider returning in the direction from which he had come. They watched him go before themselves continuing.

Fatigue still made her limbs heavy and clumsier than usual, but she wanted to ride on. Lianderthral seemed to understand, for though Amarthand had emphasized that she should rest, he let her take the lead and made no demands for her to stop, trusting her judgment.

She expected that he would ask about what had brought Amarthand to them, but Lianderthral remained unusually taciturn. The silence was a balm to the strain she was under and she felt a rush of gratitude that he knew exactly when not to push. They continued riding, and she was left alone to feel the ache in her chest that sharpened when she thought of what they were really doing: riding farther and farther away.

He must have had it made much earlier and had waited to give it to her. She guessed that it was one of a pair, and that Legolas had kept the other for himself. And what he had written…it sounded so much like a promise.

_You spoke of time and endurance. Sariel, all things may be changed, but a circle never ends_.

* * *

It started raining just before sunset, a soft, fine rain that eventually soaked them both despite their near waterproof cloaks. They had planned to rest soon, but there would be better shelter ahead, so they pressed on even though the ground was turning into mud underfoot. It slowed their progress and after sundown, the wet clothes were cold and uncomfortable. Since Sariel was half asleep in the saddle, Lianderthral insisted that they stop, though their surroundings were far from ideal.

Before they had even begun their preparations for camp, a shrill scream pierced through the sound of the rain. It came from somewhere startlingly close. Sariel exchanged one astonished look with Lianderthral before they both saddled up again and headed in the direction of the sound.

As she rode, Sariel reached her bow before she remembered it would be of no use. More than anything, she regretted the full quiver of arrows she had broken in her temper. They could have gone to much better use. Her own thoughtlessness had taken away that option for offense, though the reason why she had been so distraught was something she did not want to remember.

More sounds of distress echoed through the gloomy dusk. The sound of a child's wail of pain guided Sariel and Lianderthral straight to its source. She took in the sight incredulously. There was a ragged group of humans huddled around what seemed to be an equally ragged-looking, scrawny mule.

"Shhh—please, Theran, you must be quiet!" begged a low female voice. "Please, child, we cannot draw attention to ourselves."

The child heedlessly continued to cry as both Sariel and Lianderthral dismounted and approached. They had barely taken a few steps before they were confronted by a old woman who appeared to be nothing more than a shapeless bundle of clothes—though she was holding a knife in her hand.

"Stay back!" she demanded in a voice that cracked with fear. Her face was lined with age and Sariel could not seem to look away. She had forgotten what it was like to be by humans, to so clearly see what time had taken away from their vitality..

Lianderthral held his empty hands apart to show that he meant no harm. "Lady, we are travelers and have come only to offer our help. We heard the child's cry." To Sariel, he said, "Draw back your hood, so that she may see who we are."

Uneasily, she did as he asked, but then put her hand on his arm, stopping him from advancing toward the group. Even the child's wails had stopped now and she could only stand still under the intense scrutiny of four pairs of human eyes. There was the old woman, a younger one, two small boys, and their mule.

"What manner of being _are_ you?" breathed the younger woman, taking in the features that to them seemed normal, but to these humans, must seem extraordinary.

As if his mother's question had broken the temporary spell, the boy began to sob again. Sariel could see that he was in terrible pain, so she let Lianderthral explain to the adults that she was a healer, while she focused her attention on the children. She guessed that the boy had been riding next to his brother on the mule, but had fallen off and either twisted or broken his ankle.

She was not a healer, not by Elven standards, but she still had the skills to help these humans. Even an Elf with only rudimentary training would be able to do more for the child's injury than they could. The important thing was that they could hardly leave these people to fend for themselves, not when they had so clearly fallen on desperate times. Even now, Lianderthral was assuring the mother and the other older woman that they would help.

"What is the name of your brother?" Sariel asked the boy still atop the mule. He was dark haired, dark eyed, and shivering hard in his wet clothes. He scrambled off the makeshift saddle, nearly slipping. She reached out just in time to catch him, waiting until he was standing steadily before letting go. The two boys looked almost identical, from what she could see.

"Theran," he answered, his small face pale and anxious. He gazed wide-eyed at her. "He's Theran and I'm Markham. Please, lady, will you help us?"

* * *

They were war refugees, Sariel learned later. This family had lived in the countryside with only a few neighbors, all of whom had been killed when the orcs had come. The children's father, Brockhart, and their older sister had been among those who had died in the raid. With few options left to them, Brynna and her two children had had returned to their broken home after the orcs had passed through. The old woman was Jessamine, Brynna's own mother. Though Brynna had some skill with the bow, she could not bring down enough game to feed them all. The scant food and supplies that were left after the orcs had slowly dwindled to nearly nothing.

Sariel heard the rest of their story from Markham as she examined his brother's injury. She had dosed Theran with a sedative so that he would remain in a painless sleep while she set her ankle. It pained her to see how gaunt and hollow-eyed all four of the humans were. She could tell that Markham was trying to put on a brave face before the "lady and her lord," but the boy could not hide the terror that shadowed his eyes when he told her what had happened.

Two days ago, a group of seven or eight of the same "monsters" as before had come through the area again. Jessamine had been trying to gather edible plants for them, so she had been able to warn everyone in time. They had hidden away while the orcs had ridden past, but Brynna had decided that they had no choice but to leave and seek the safety of others' company. They had been traveling for the last day and a half, mostly southward, and were hoping to find a community that would take them in.

Sariel had known that not all of Belderon's army had been killed at the end of the war. Thranduil and Legolas had sent out constant patrol groups to try to eliminate the remaining loose bands. Legolas himself had gone on several, and even Sariel had joined more than a few. They were outside of the boundaries of Eryn Lasgalen now, however, and it was unsurprising that there were some orcs still terrorizing the area.

After Sariel treated Theran, the next immediate need was to find shelter for the night, since the heavy drizzle had turned into a pelting rain. The Elves walked while Jessamine and Brynna rode the horses, each with a child in front. Despite their efforts, neither Sariel nor Lianderthral were able to find any sort of dry shelter over the next hour, so they eventually made do with what they had. They used the tarpaulin Lianderthral had brought to build a simple lean-to that barely afforded enough room for the adults and children. The exhausted family ate and went to sleep, while both Elves remained outside to keep watch.

The rain finally ceased, so Sariel sat with Lianderthral in relative peace. He carried his bow and his quiver was slung diagonally across his back. Meanwhile, Lianderthral's sheathed sword lay across Sariel's thighs and she gripped the hilt of it in her hand. Her own sword had never been reforged after the terrible blow that had simultaneously shattered it and broken her arm. Aurielen still lay in pieces within the scabbard strapped to her saddlebags, of no practical use to her.

"What should we do?" she asked after the sound of Brynna's breathing changed to the full, even breaths of the soundly asleep. "I want to hunt those orcs down, Lianderthral."

It was startling how fiercely she felt about it, and some of her determination had come across in her tone. Lianderthral turned his head and regarded her thoughtfully. "As do I, but their safety should be the priority. You know as well as I that they are almost defenseless."

Sariel nodded. "We must at least escort them until they find others who can help them. But after that…"

"We are likely to run into some even without trying," Lianderthral reminded her. "Especially now that the size of our group had increased. Also, they do not have the endurance that we do and will not be able to travel as far as you expect."

Even at this time of year, the nights were cold on the mountainside, and worse yet after the rain. Both of their horses were bedded down nearby, so when Lianderthral rose, he only took a few steps in order to retrieve something from their things. He brought back a skin of wine and passed it along to her in the darkness.

"For warmth," he said, though it was more indulgence than anything else.

She found it difficult to look at him. The strands of hair that had escaped his braid were drying and gleamed golden against the dark color of his cloak. He was not Legolas and she would not let herself pretend, but it seemed to her that even when they were alone, they were both thinking so hard of someone else that it was almost as if he were here too, between them.

"Amarthand left me something else to give to you," Lianderthral told her. "I am surprised you did not notice it earlier."

This was not true, for Sariel had seen an addition to his packs, but she had not been able to bring herself to ask. "Why did he not give it to me then?"

"He was told not to, since the prince thought you would never have accepted them," explained Lianderthral.

Sariel's stomach knotted with dismay as he passed to her a heavy bundle that he had carefully covered with one of his spare cloaks. There were thin oilcloth coverings under the heavy fabric and she reached out to remove them, the shapes already telling her what she would find.

It was a bow and a full quiver—a practical gift, since he had seen how she had destroyed all of her own arrows that night. Sariel still drew in a sharp breath because with one glance, she knew it was not just any bow and quiver. Even in the semi-darkness, she recognized the bow, for she had seen and admired it many times. The craftsmanship was superb, as expected of a gift from the Lady of the Wood to one of the Fellowship. Within the quiver, she found one arrow that was slightly different from the others, though her trembling fingertips found its fletching and smooth, straight shaft familiar. Once, she had given it to Legolas on the eve of the war.

She blinked away tears as her hands touched silvery wood that was contoured with swirling, elegant designs. This bow and quiver should not mean as much as the ring he had also left her, but somehow they did. Perhaps it was only because she could imagine what hopes he might have. Surely he could guess that, knowing just how much he prized these possessions, she would want to return them to him someday.

Or perhaps it was because no tangible gift of any kind could convey the truth that they both knew: he had already lost what he valued most, for she had left him.

* * *

It was not easy, as Lianderthral had warned. Sariel chafed at their slow pace and the land remained deserted of other humans, likely because they had already fled. What habitation they found showed the heartbreaking signs of raiding and looting. A small cottage they had come across had been empty, though there were two burial cairns outside. The survivor had evidently left weeks ago.

Such death and destruction would have happened whether or not she had rebelled against Belderon, Sariel told herself frequently. Belderon might have set her free once she had killed Legolas, but he would still have sent his army toward Eryn Lasgalen. Even when facing his own death, her former master had gloated that he had set all the pieces in place for war. All that had happened in the last year had been the culmination of a thousand years of planning by Thranduil's once most trusted advisor.

The truth still did not entirely stem the guilt that she felt each time she saw how many communities had fallen before roaming bands of orcs. After seeing Brynna and Jessamine struggle with things that came to her easily by nature, Sariel could not help but feel that humans were especially vulnerable. Their strength lay in numbers, and even then, it was often not enough.

Theran and Markham surprised her by being unfazed by anything they saw. The boys were not as naïve as she had believed. She had not been able guess their ages, but Lianderthral had asked and they were only ten and eleven years old. Theran was the elder, but Markham was bolder. Both children regarded her and Lianderthral with an awe that she found uncomfortable, though Lianderthral bore it with better grace. Still, it was Sariel than Markham tried hard to impress and Sariel who even allowed them to try doing the easiest of drills with her knives.

After all, she understood their feelings. She, too, had seen her father cut down before her, and had subsequently vowed vengeance. Sariel could have told them that no matter how many orcs they killed when they grew up, nothing would bring their sister and father back to them. She said nothing, however, because she also knew what it was like to use anger to ward off despair.

More than ever, Sariel was determined to escort Jessamine, Brynna, and the children to safety. With every day that passed, she better comprehended what Queen Miluirin had meant when she had said that time and endurance were the greatest gifts given to the Elves. These people had neither and the difference was stark.

Each and every night they stopped to rest, and during those many hours, Sariel studied medicine from the books than Runya had given her. One of the books had been authored by a Gondorian and Sariel was fascinated by the healer's descriptions of human sicknesses, of which there were a frightful many. The other book had almost completely been about the treatment of wounds that had been sustained in fighting, for Elves were mostly immune to illness and other than battle injuries, they were at most sickened by poison.

Even after traveling together for over two weeks, Jessamine regarded the Elves warily and Brynna only slightly less so. They were grateful for the help and protection that Sariel and Lianderthral provided, but clearly found it difficult to relax in their company. The two races seemed similar, but their customs differed and Sariel's youthful beauty—especially remarkable by human standards—contrasted sharply with the appearances of the two women.

What Sariel had not expected was despite all this, she still found easier acceptance from Brynna and Jessamine in a couple of weeks than she had found from most of those of her own race in several months. But was it really any wonder? They knew nothing about her past and it was enough that she was helping them now.

She could not tell whether their ignorance terrified her or gave her hope.

* * *

The days had passed in such calm that when trouble came, even Jessamine had let down her guard. As usual, Brynna and Jessamine were astride the horses, Theran with their grandmother and Markham with their mother. Sariel and Legolas kept up with them on foot, jogging steadily to keep pace. They were passing through a mountainous area that offered poor visibility, so it was Markham's yell that alerted them.

How the boy sensed the approaching orcs, Sariel would never know, since neither she nor Lianderthral had heard their approach. There were five on horseback and they came charging so quickly toward the group that Lianderthral managed to get off only two shots. One was deflected by the armor that the orcs were wearing, but the other arrow flew true. It pierced through an orc's eye and into his brain.

"Get back!" Sariel screamed at the women. "Take the horses and go!"

She did not wait to see if they heeded her orders. She fixed her gaze on her oncoming attacker, seeing in her peripheral vision that the orc Lianderthral had just slain had fallen out of his saddle, though his foot was caught in the stirrup of his horse. A shrill, frightened whinny burst from the horse even as Lianderthral's sword clashed noisily against a heavy orc blade.

Sariel drew her knives, knowing she was at an extreme disadvantage. Her reach was limited and she was on foot against a mounted foe. Her speed still helped her dodge the first two heavy blows before luck proved to be on her side. The riderless horse was galloping toward Sariel's attacker, still dragging the dead orc. The corpse's foot suddenly slipped free of the stirrup and the panicked horse careened into her attacker's mount, sending that rider and horse slightly off course.

Sariel sheathed her knives. She would need perfect timing. The orc and his horse passed her in the next breath, close enough that to nearly trample her—Sariel gritted her teeth and ran alongside it, throwing herself not away, but toward the horse. She grabbed the cantle of the saddle with both hands with all her strength and vaulted herself onto the horse behind the orc, all the while praying her opponent would be too surprised at her maneuver to turn around and gut her.

For a moment, she and the orc were riding double, then Sariel drew her knife and leaned forward to plunge it through the gap of the orc's armor at the neck. Hot blood gushed, splattering her and terrifying the horse. She shoved the orc off and kicked at the stirrups to free his feet from them, ignoring the sickening crunch of bones breaking when the body hit the ground. She was already looking around, trying to assess the situation. Lianderthral had killed one orc and was successfully fighting another, so there was one left, somewhere.

Sariel turned her head and discovered the orc had been right behind her on her left, in her blind spot. There was no time. Though she mercilessly kicked her horse's sides in reflex, she already knew it was too late. Her knives could not ward off the powerful swing of a broadsword and the orc was far too close—

The orc let loose a battle cry and even as her eyes took in the sight of his descending blade, the feathered shaft of an arrow sprouted from his open mouth. The ferocious cry choked off and turned into a bloody gurgle, even as Sariel's horse jolted forward and reared up from her sudden kick. Struggling to keep her seating, she turned her head in time to see the sword fell harmlessly from the orc's slack fingers.

"Sariel!" Lianderthral had finished off the last enemy and was running toward her, his expression showing that he had seen how close she had just come to being decapitated. Almost as one, both of them turned to track the direction from which the arrow had flown—and that was when Sariel's eyes met Brynna's wide, shocked gaze.

For Brynna was astride Myste at the crest of the next rocky ridge, Markham still riding in front of her. The woman clutched her bow in her left hand and looked positively sick at the incredible shot she had just made. She could easily have hit Sariel instead.

Jessamine and Theran were nowhere in sight, so the Elves were quick to surmise what had happened. Brynna had fled at Sariel's command, but she had turned back, risking both her and her child's lives—and in doing so, she had probably saved Sariel's life.

Wriggling free of his mother's grip, Markham swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted with a slide. Sariel's horse had come to a standstill and the boy fearlessly ran toward her. "Sariel, are you all right?"

As he reached her, he stumbled on the uneven slope and before Sariel had realized it, she was out of the saddle. But Markham caught his balance and flung his arms around her, ignoring the blood on her clothes. He had almost seen her die.

To everyone's and most of all her own surprise, she cried.

* * *

On the night of the autumn equinox, the special time of the year when day and night were equal, Lianderthral insisted that they spend the night in celebration rather than continuing on the road. Sariel could put up a token protest, since the Wine Moon associated with the festival was a full moon and the increased visibility was excellent for riding. Still, she knew by now that it was difficult for humans to travel at night and she could tell that Markham and Theran were tired. Jessamine needed rest, too, though the old woman had never complained.

It did not take long for Lianderthral to find out that Jessamine and Brynna were used to celebrating the equinox, though it was new to Sariel.

"What do you usually do during this time of year?" she asked him, recalling that he had lived alone for years. "Do you celebrate by yourself?"

"I would hunt to replenish my stocks for winter," Lianderthral replied. "To tell the truth, I do not observe the customary festivities often. Sometimes I do travel north to join Lord Elrond and those at Imladris for the winter."

"Then what about this year? Your supplies, I mean."

He grinned at her. "Since I have the pleasure of knowing an archer skilled enough to have defeated the best before—though that was probably due to a little luck—I thought we could take turns hunting."

"But what will we do with the extra meat?"

Lianderthral gave her an incredulous look. "Have you never learned to prepare food for storage? How have you been living all these years?"

Sariel felt her cheeks grow hot. "Of course I have… But I am not well versed in our traditions, as you know."

Jessamine and Brynna were listening to their conversation with interest, she noticed. This particular subject had never come up before, but it sparked Lianderthral's interest, to her dismay. "What of wine making? Do you even know how wine is made?"

His tone provoked a glare. "Yes, I do," she retorted, then continued without prompting. "I know that it is this time of year that the grapes are harvested. The vineyards are illuminated by the full moon, which helps extend the gathering time."

"So, you are not _entirely _ignorant," he teased. "Very well, Sariel, I will accept you as my pupil."

Her mouth fell open. Even the Markham and Theran knew that she practiced what they considered to be magic with Lianderthral. "I already _am_ your pupil!"

"My student in the ways of Elvish culture," he clarified. "We can start with what you already know, provided you can bring down a buck."

"Right now?" Sariel was surprised at her own eagerness.

Lianderthral pulled the bowstring, testing the tension of his bow. "Why wait? We can have venison for dinner."

She grabbed her bow and slung her quiver across her back. The designs on the wood of the bow gleamed with a faint radiance and reminded her of something. "Do you really think that I bested Legolas in archery because of luck?"

Too wise to answer, he merely laughed, much to her outrage. It did not escape his notice that it was the first time she had mentioned Legolas. She acted no differently than usual, but Lianderthral saw confusion in Jessamine and Brynna's expressions as they heard the unfamiliar name. Both boys also looked at Sariel curiously as she departed, and then all four of them turned to her Elven counterpart.

He shook his head in reply to the unspoken question. It was not his story to tell.

* * *

As promised, they celebrated as best they could. The adults toasted each other with warmed wine by firelight, while Markham and Theran were given watered wine. They did not have much, since it had all come from the same skin that Lianderthral had shared with Sariel. Still, they observed the tradition and that was what mattered.

Neither of the Elves were in need of much rest, so they took watch together for the first part of the night. In the companionable silence, Sariel's thoughts wandered as she began to think about the mysterious intersection of their lives. If she and Lianderthral had not happened on Brynna and her family, what would have happened to them? Was it fate that determined which people would be in the same place at the same time? Or was a coincidental meeting all that it took, like the arbitrary connections of stars to form a constellation?

Ithildin would know, she thought with smile, remembering the astronomer. He would tell her something about intersecting worlds and connected existences. Perhaps now, after everything she had experienced, she would believe him.

Exactly one year ago, she had been traveling to Lórien, unaware that she would meet and befriend the Elf she intended to kill. If she had not met Legolas then, she would have completed the assassination, none the wiser of whose life she was ending. Knowing him before she had learned that he was the Prince of Mirkwood had changed the entire course of her existence.

Perhaps it had been destiny and perhaps it had been simple luck. She was beginning to realize that in a way, it did not matter. Focusing on her lack of choices had only blinded her to the choices that she could make. Belderon had decided almost every aspect of her life for her, for hundreds of years, until there had been no reason for her to want to decide anything for herself. Yet from the moment the stiletto in her hand had pierced Legolas's chest and missed his heart, she had been free.

Here she was again a year later, but the journey she made now was her own. Sariel could feel the restless change in the air. The passing season was turning the leaves on the trees around her from green to gold. It was the autumn equinox, the second time in the year when the length of the day and the night were exactly equal.

It was a balancing point and Sariel knew it. She was a bird perched on the branch of a tree, her wings half spread, caught in the hesitant, uncertain moment between taking flight and settling down. To choose her future meant that she first needed to face her past, and what she had slowly found was the courage to do so.

In the morning, shortly after sunrise, Sariel told them all who she had been and began to think of who she wanted to be.

* * *

A/N: **Please review!** **  
**

_Finalized March 2011_


	31. Eastdale

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

**A/N**: Please note that I went back and changed Chapter 30. You don't absolutely need to reread the last chapter, but there _are _some fairly significant changes, so you may want at least skim it. The original version of Chapter 31 that was posted years ago is completely gone, so if you're a returning reader from way back then, pretend that all that never happened!

The quote below is from one of Tolkien's letters in _The Silmarillion._ I think it's interesting as background to why Sariel's struggle to change her life is probably more difficult than we expect. It's also why, in my opinion, she couldn't have stayed in an Elven community, whether Eryn Lasgalen or elsewhere. This quote really shows two fascinating aspects of the Elves, given how they're mostly perfect. The Elves tend to be caught up in their nostalgia for a kind of purer, more perfect past. This, in addition to their longevity, means that as a race they tend toward stagnation, rather than change:

_...we see a sort of second fall or at least 'error' of the Elves. There was nothing wrong essentially in their lingering against counsel, still sadly with the mortal lands of their old heroic deeds. But they wanted to have their cake without eating it. They wanted the peace and bliss and perfect memory of 'The West', and yet to remain on the ordinary earth where their prestige as the highest people, above wild Elves, dwarves, and Men, was greater than at the bottom of the hierarchy of Valinor. They thus became obsessed with 'fading', the mode in which the changes of time (the law of the world under the sun) was perceived by them. They became sad, and their art (shall we say) antiquarian, and their efforts all really a kind of embalming — even though they also retained the old motive of their kind, the adornment of the earth, and the healing of its hurts.__ – Tolkien_

To some extent, the past has become more important than the future, for the Elves. If you apply this kind of mindset to social beliefs about the possibility for redemption, you can see how that can be a problem.

* * *

**Chapter 31: Eastdale**

* * *

She did not have to tell them the truth and she did not even have to tell them a lie. For Brynna's family, Sariel could be anyone she chose to be from this point on, all without losing the precious acceptance she had gained. She did not have to risk being judged for her past and after all, she and Lianderthral were already helping them considerably. Yet what Sariel discovered was that in a way, it was because she could have kept all her secrets that made her want to offer them freely.

She held nothing back, refusing to soften the truth even for the children. They had already lost their father and their sister, and were of an age to understand the harsher realities of the world in which they lived. As her story came pouring out, Sariel finally gave voice to what she felt had happened to her, even telling them about her complicated relationship with Legolas. She finished by telling them how she had left Eryn Lasgalen, the decision which had led to their coincidental meeting.

In the short silence that followed, Sariel slowly looked up and found the understanding she had hoped for, but knew better than to accept. Tears trickled down Brynna's cheeks and Jessamine's eyes shown with compassion, but Sariel was not comforted. She had wished so much to see this on the faces of her own kind that this felt like a dream—and yet her chest constricted with the fear that they still did not truly understand.

After all, she had seen these expressions before. So many people had suffered because of her, and yet they had not blamed her as they should have. Arwen, Legolas, Athelas, and even Simbelmynë, in the end, had looked at her the same way. How many lives had she ruined already?

Yet there was no blame and no pity, only empathy on their faces. The strength of that acceptance made her look away. Sariel stood up abruptly, unable to stop her breath from coming in short, desperate gasps. Her heart was racing far more than it ever had in the middle of battle and all she knew was that she needed to _go_, she needed to escape to somewhere she could breathe.

The feeling was familiar and suddenly, Sariel was flooded with the realization that this was what she had fled from, too, in Eryn Lasgalen. It had not so much been Legolas that she had left, but rather, these overwhelming feelings that had so threatened her sanity.

She had run away from judgment and rejection, but in doing so, she had also left behind acceptance. There had been some there who cared for her—Runya, Miluirin, Eros, and others. Legolas had tried to tell her this once, but she had disregarded it then, not really understanding what he meant. _It is a hard thing, is it not, to understand why others would care for you, when you so hate yourself._ It was because his words still rang in her mind that she now crossed her arms hard over her stomach and forced herself to stay.

"Why?" she asked, voice trembling. "You know I have taken innocent lives. I deserve exile, if not execution for my crimes. So why do you still look at me like this?"

"You did not choose to kill," said Jessamine, just as Lianderthral answered, "Because it was Belderon who forced your hand."

"But I still had some choice," argued Sariel. "I could have let myself and my sister and my mother die. For the price of three lives, I could have spared so many others...and yet I only made that choice when it came to Legolas. By that time, I almost wanted to be caught, even knowing my mother would die for it. I was too weak to stand against him and too weak to even protect my family, as I wanted."

"You never stood a chance against Belderon," Brynna told her gently. "Sariel, those were not choices, not as anyone ought to reckon them. You were forced to decide between two evils."

Sariel turned away. "In the last few months, I began to convince myself of that. But what if, Brynna, I killed because _I _needed to?"

A fraught silence fell over the group, broken by Lianderthral. "What are you saying?"

She needed to tell them, but she was afraid. Sariel stared at the ground, unable to speak at first, but finally finding the words. "It was my first blood-oath. His name was Rhovansûl, though I was not supposed to remember his name."

"Sariel—" Lianderthral started to say.

"Let me finish," she told him fiercely. "It was easy for me, Lianderthral, until his lover returned just in time to see him die. I scouted the area before and I was sure that he was alone, so when she appeared, I simply—I did not know what to do. I panicked. She came at me and I killed her."

She took a shaky breath and swallowed hard. "Do you see now, what I mean? Belderon never even knew about it. Her life was in my hands and only my hands."

Lianderthral's green eyes were grim, but still determined. "You would not have been in that situation had Belderon not sent you there. He ensured her death when he sent you out as his weapon for revenge. Sariel, you cannot continue living in guilt for your every past deed. You were an assassin then. You are not one now."

"I know," she said, surprising him. "But even now, none of you truly understand. I always thought that Rhovansûl was the first. Maybe I should not have, but I spent years preparing for that assassination and he was an Elf, so I saw him as my first true victim. But when I looked down at their bodies, I knew that I was mistaken.

"I never knew who I was," continued Sariel, her voice rising sharply from pressure. "I was a child, and then I was Belderon's nightingale. There was never a Sariel who had qualities that were unshaped by Belderon. She was just…erased. I was never a person, so that was why I was desperate just to be a daughter, a sister. It was not until I looked down at Rhovansûl and his lover that I realized the truth—_I _was my own first victim."

Jessamine reached out with open hands but Sariel moved back. She looked from face to face, seeing them absorb her words.

"Now there is only this Sariel," she said in a low voice. "And I still do not know who I am, or whether I can even exist."

"But you exist to us," Markham said, and though the pitch of his voice betrayed his youth, his declaration came out strong. It was the first thing either of the boys had said so far in response to Sariel's revelations and she was not the only one startled when he spoke up. "You saved us, Lady Sariel."

"And you can be whoever you want to be," his older brother added with enviable certitude. Theran glanced toward his mother, clearly passing on a lesson he had heard more than once before. "You can find out who you are."

"They are both right," said Jessamine. "Whoever you were in the past, you are someone different now, Sariel."

It was what she wanted to believe, but nevertheless still could not. "Anyone can pretend," she pointed out. "Anyone can lie."

"Anyone can start over," countered Brynna. "Human or Elf, assassin or healer, the Sariel I know is _you_. You see others far more clearly than you see yourself, right now. But that does not mean you do not exist."

Sariel turned until she found herself almost eye to eye with Brynna, who had also risen from her seat. The woman was shorter than her, but looked steadily at her. Behind her were Jessamine, Theran, Markham, and Lianderthral. The belief that she saw in their faces could almost make up for her lack of belief in herself. She had chosen to give herself to these people—and in return, they had chosen her.

"We should go," Sariel said at last, swallowing past the lump in her throat. "I have wasted our morning with talk of the past, but the journey before us may still be long yet. We have a full day of riding ahead of us."

Theran and Markham could not hide their eagerness at the prospect, the tension in the air dissipating as their faces reflected their determination to push onward. One positive outcome of the orcs' attack was that they now had enough horses for everyone to ride. They would likely cover twice as much ground as before, but it would be harder on the humans, particularly for Jessamine.

Despite the old woman's sighs, there was still something about their progress that gave them renewed hope. What they had survived brought them closer together and the knowledge that they could endure so much and yet still continue somehow eased the heaviness of their hearts and the pain of their losses.

Not long afterward, Brynna put a light hand on Sariel's shoulder, stopping her just before she mounted. "I am glad you told us, but you must remember that time only moves forward, for humans and, I think, also for Elves." Her eyes reflected a deep sadness that would never completely fade. "For the rest of my life, I will always wonder if I could have done something to save my husband and daughter."

"Brynna," Sariel said, wanting to offer comfort but not knowing how. They had never brought up this subject before. Jessamine had been the one to tell the Elves about what had happened to their family.

"Her name was Rosalyn," Brynna said with a painful smile. Sariel struggled to find words, but the other woman shook her head—she did not need them, for she was not looking for comfort for herself. "The guilt and pain will always be there, but life goes on, too. I cannot give up, not when the rest of my family still needs me. You will have to make your peace with the memory of those you could not save…" Her tone softened. "Including yourself, Sariel."

It snowed for the first time a week later, giving their small, struggling group the first taste of winter's bite. Sariel anxiously went over the maps with Lianderthral, both knowing that they needed to find a human settlement soon, before travel became impossible for their companions. Rather than attempting the task of crossing the Misty Mountains, they were traveling south, skirting the edge of the mountain range, heading toward Eagle's Eyrie. It was the same path they would have taken to Lianderthral's home, which was near the River Gladden.

There was no more talk of the past, not when the future held so much uncertainty and danger. Even so, Brynna's words stuck with Sariel in a way that similar words from others before had not. No one who mattered blamed her for the things she had done. Maybe it was time to stop blaming herself.

* * *

Centuries of danger after Sauron's return to Dol Guldur in southern Mirkwood had emptied the land of people. It was almost a miracle when Sariel and her companions found not just a small settlement of a few houses, but an entire town. Even from a distance, it seemed larger and better defended than any of them could have hoped, at least judging by the high stone wall that encircled the entire area. The barred gate that they were approaching was closed, but the Elves could see that there was a person standing in front of it.

"We should speak first to the guard," Brynna told Sariel and Lianderthral as they briefly conferred. Her face was both hopeful and worried, but Sariel caught the emphasis on her words and understood what she meant. It was impossible to tell what kind of reception Elves might get at such an apparently well-hidden town, whereas the two women and two children would hardly be perceived of as a threat.

"Let Markham and Theran stay here with them," Jessamine urged her daughter. "It might even be best if I went alone."

Brynna refused to let the old woman take on all the risk herself, however. Both Elves stayed on horseback a little distance away with the boys as the two women dismounted and made their way on foot to the single guard at the gate. Though the humans probably thought that they were out of earshot, Sariel could hear the entire conversation.

"Stop where you are," the man called out before either women had even spoken. His voice was not hostile, but it was stern and far from friendly. "The town of Eastdale is closed to outsiders. You will not be allowed to enter."

Sariel sat up straighter in the saddle from shock and Lianderthral's horse shifted uneasily, betraying the tension that his rider must have also felt. Why would the humans turn their own kind away, especially when it was so clear that this family needed help?

"We are refugees, sir," said Brynna, still a good twenty feet from the guard. "The orcs have raided nearly every village in the region. We have lost everything and have nowhere else to turn."

The man shook his head in grim negation. "We have taken in almost a dozen survivors of such raids in the past two months, but then people began to fall ill. Whether it is because of those we have let into Eastdale or otherwise, there is talk of the plague."

The deadly word seemed to hang in the air, even though the man's voice had dropped nearly to a whisper when he had uttered it. Sariel exchanged a look with Lianderthral, both of them finding it impossible to have foreseen this complication.

At Brynna and Jessamine's obvious despair, the man added, "The news from other villages is that it spreads from the orcs to humans. We have quarantined the sick but you will not be allowed to enter."

"There is nowhere else we can go, sir," Jessamine repeated, looking older and more tired than ever. "Winter is nearly here."

"Even if you are able to enter, you would only be quarantined with the rest of the sick," said the guard, with more sympathy. He looked in the direction of the waiting children and Elves, then back at Brynna. "Our healers say that the infected likely will not recover. It is better to take your chances with the winter."

"What if we can prove that we have been healthy for over a month since the raid on our home?" Brynna asked in desperation.

"And how would you prove that, lady?"

Sariel had heard enough. She urged Myste forward, ignoring how the guard cursed and drew his bow, shouting for her to stop. She did so only in front of him, raising a hand to draw back her hood so he could more easily see the differences in her features which set her apart from humans.

He slowly released the tension in his bow as he stared in awe at her face and then stared harder at her ears.

"She can prove it because all of them have been under the care of an Elven healer since the attack," said Sariel. Lianderthral had followed her lead and she saw the guard's incredulous gaze dart to the fair-haired Elf beside her, at a loss for what to do. "Let us speak to the leader of Eastdale."

* * *

A deliberate footfall made Sariel look up from the voluminous book she was consulting, but it was only Lianderthral, candlelight gilding the angles of his face as he regarded her without speaking. He took a seat beside her at the table and flipped open the other leather-bound book on the table. It was a history of the Great Plague in T.A. 1636, which had left many kingdoms, including Gondor, devastated from population loss.

"They are so much more vulnerable than we are to disease," she said to him, knowing he had let her take the lead the entire day despite his misgivings. "I took much of our natural gifts for granted."

"Most of us do," Lianderthral pointed out. "The Elves do not mingle often with Men, though naturally we remember our great alliances more than they do."

"I think I admire them more because everything is harder for them," she said. "The way Brynna and Jessamine look at us sometimes though—they all look at us like that here, as if they cannot believe their own eyes."

He nodded in rueful agreement. Sariel could not remember the last time she had seen him look uncomfortable, but it was harder for him than it was for her in Eastdale. To some extent, the townspeople here had seen beautiful women before—after all, there were lovely females among all races. But though the town looked prosperous and the men Sariel had seen were healthy and strong, Lianderthral's Elven features set him more apart from the human males than Sariel's did from the other women.

Still, as Sariel let her eyes rest on the sharp, clean structure of his face, she knew that the difference was only relative. Neither of them could ever escape the notice of the people here, and it was only partially due to their appearances. They were both surrounded by a town full of humans who alternately regarded them with unease and hope. It was a potent combination of emotion.

"Are you sure this is what you want to do, Sariel?" Lianderthral asked her gently, with those thoughts fresh on both of their minds. "There are other ways to help."

She bit her lip. "I know that you are thinking we can take them elsewhere, but the other villages and towns will only deny them entry for the same fears."

"I meant your decision to stay to help the sick," he said, looking somber. "Sariel, it is very possible that nothing you can do will help stop this, if it does become a plague. From what Lord Harthain told us, the town healers have barely even begun to study it."

Sariel shrugged and closed the book. "I have to try. I promised him I would."

"He would have let Brynna and her family in even if you had not offered to stay. The townspeople may be afraid, but Harthain is a good man. He would have taken our word that none of them could possibly carry whatever sickness is already here."

"I know. I do want to do this…" she hesitated, finding it difficult to explain. "I think this might be who I want to be." She looked at him, her expression troubled but optimistic. "If I offer my knowledge to the healers here—Lianderthral, what I know is so different from what they know, maybe if I combined my efforts with theirs, I can save lives instead of take them."

Her hand had clenched into a fist on top of the book and he now covered it with his, silently offering his support. "I hope you can. It may be that your knowledge of death will only make you better at preventing it. You saved _me _before, when I was poisoned."

The memory of her desperation back then brought a faint smile to her lips. "I had never tried to save anyone before. You were lucky."

"Then I will wish you luck," he said, catching her gaze and holding it.

It had been a while since they had been alone, but both of them had seen this conversation coming when Harthain had agreed to let Brynna's family stay in Eastdale and Sariel had more or less volunteered to stay.

"When I left Eryn Lasgalen, I planned to go with you to your home, but now…"

"I will not be returning there myself," he said, surprising her. "I will stay here if you wish, but I think you will do more good here than I can."

"You told me that you sometimes spend the winter in Imladris," she said, not quite a question.

"Before we met Brynna and the others, I was going to ask you to come with me," admitted Lianderthral. "Elves have all of eternity to wander and live, so it is not strange that our concerns are different from those of Men. To gain knowledge of the self and knowledge of the world around us is an endless quest much suited to us, and Imladris is a place of healing and knowledge, after all."

Sariel dropped her gaze to his hand, still covering hers. Would he be able to heal his wounded heart there? She was sure that thought was far from his mind, however. She suspected Lianderthral thought that she needed this—needed to find her balance again on her own, without leaning on him.

If she asked, she knew without a doubt that he would stay. But that was why she would not ask, because the truth was that _he_ needed this too. She hoped that he might find peace in Rivendell, where he would not be reminded every day that the person he loved would always love someone else.

"Do you mean to leave soon?" she asked. "We are not far from the High Pass."

His hand tightened on hers for a moment before he took it away. "If this isthe beginning of a plague, I want to get word to Rivendell as soon as possible. The Misty Mountains are not under the full brunt of winter yet, so I will leave on the morrow."

"Tomorrow," she echoed, feeling her stomach clench with nerves at how soon it was. He had given her a kind of safety and she was new to Eastdale, where they were all hoping she might find a miracle cure. Had she offered more than she could give?

"Are you still afraid of what you will find among others?" he asked her, a little sad and a little amused. "Are you still wondering what you will find in yourself?"

She studied him, her eyes an inky blue in the bleaching light, slightly tilting her head as if in inquiry. Fear, she discovered with surprise, was not hers alone. Disguised emotion drew his features taut, and she wondered if he was aware of how much he revealed, or if they had become so close that dissembling was impossible. Hope, a little yearning, concern—his green eyes were bright and fierce. He feared that he would lose her and yet he encouraged her independence while knowing full well that her success would mean exactly that.

And this was what Lianderthral had taught her, in the end. Sariel had seen the edge of cruelty and pride that existed even in their race. She had experienced the Elves' sense of justice and had come to understand, a little, how resistant they could be to change. But in Lianderthral and in Legolas, in Arwen and in Vanidar, she had also seen what made their race capable of such nobility and grace.

Almost all her life, Sariel had made constant sacrifices for others, but she had not done it out of choice. Even when her mother and her sister were still alive, she had always felt alone—she had given up her innocence for them, had killed to keep them alive, and yet in the end she did not know whether that was the most selfless thing she had done or the most selfish.

_This_, though, she knew, was right. This was what she was meant to do, and the wonder of it overwhelmed her for a moment: that she could feel now something inside of her, guiding her decisions, and that it was something she could trust.

"I might be afraid, but I will not let it hold me back," she told Lianderthral, knowing he would understand. "For better or worse, I want to find out."

He nodded, accepting the final decision that would take them on their separate ways. "Then I have another thing I want to ask you. I can take your sword with me to Imladris, where it will be reforged by the Elven-smiths. Do you want me to?"

Sariel was torn, but only for a moment. Having a sword did not make her into a killer, just as keeping her stiletto did not make her an assassin. Cold practicality told her that she needed a weapon, and Aurielen was the only thing she had of her father.

"I would be grateful if you could take it." She stood to get it for him, holding the battered scabbard with a reverence that belied its unimpressive appearance. Sariel wanted to tell him so many things—to thank him for everything he had done and everything he was to her, to apologize for everything she could not be for him. When she handed the sword, she added, "This is not a goodbye, Lianderthral."

She knew she had found the right words because his smile was heartbreakingly beautiful. "I am glad you know that it is not. We will see each other soon enough again, Sariel. I promise."

The candle flames in the room jumped and flickered, burning brighter. Outside, it began to snow.

* * *

"We took in a family of four about four weeks ago," Marian told Sariel as they walked into the room that served as both infirmary and quarantine. "The father and son had fought off the orcs that had attacked their homestead, but the man was injured. They were a family which had come to Eastdale before to trade, so they were easily accepted. At first, his wound seemed to be healing properly, but about two weeks ago, he started falling ill again."

"What are the symptoms?" asked Sariel, scanning the room. There were already six patients in total, an alarming number given that the timeline the healer was indicating. The entire town's population was probably no more than five hundred.

"So far it is almost as if they have been exposed to some kind of slow-acting poison—"

"Are you sure this is unrelated to the injuries the man had?" They spoke in low tones, not much louder than whispers, though none of the patients were awake. "The orcs often coat the blades of their weapons with poison. Sometimes they mix two or three poisons so that it is harder to identify."

"We are sure it is an infectious sickness," said Marian, an edge to her voice. "Though we may not be as skilled as the Elves in healing, we know how to take care of our own."

"I did not mean to imply otherwise," Sariel said hastily, realizing that her interruption could have been taken as condescending or antagonizing.

After Lianderthral had left, Harthain had introduced her to the two healers in this town, one of whom had an apprentice. Marian, who was considerably younger than her colleague, had offered to take Sariel to see the patients right away, but neither of them had bothered with more than perfunctory introductions.

Marian's expression softened. "Forgive me. We are all on edge because of this and already Elise and I have been confronted by too many who are afraid that this is the beginning of another great plague."

Sariel could guess that Marian had borne the brunt of the townspeople's demands, since Elise, who appeared to be even older than Jessamine, did not seem like the type to patiently answer questions. Though Sariel was still less than adept at guessing human ages, Marian looked as though she was between twenty to thirty years old. It could not have been easy for her to play the role of less experienced healer.

"It starts with chills and coughing, then a high fever," Marian continued after a moment. "The patients complain of chest pains and their heartbeat is slowed. They have dry mouth and skin, nosebleeds, and then they have trouble breathing. The man who first fell ill, Jarl, started vomiting blood a few days ago. Yesterday, he fell unconscious and we have not been able to wake him since."

It was a grim and thorough description of the disease's progression. They were by Jarl's bedside, so Sariel reached out and gently opened one of his eyes. Though the room was brightly lit, his pupil was enlarged. Along with the list of other symptoms, Sariel understood why Marian said it was as if they had been exposed to some kind of slow-acting poison.

"Have you been taking any steps to protect yourself from being infected?"

Marian shook her head, her eyes shadowed. "I sterilize everything and keep things as clean as possible, the same as if this were any other illness."

"You should still limit your exposure," said Sariel. "May I stay here and examine them before I seek you out to compare our observations? I can also start taking care of their needs for as much of the time as possible. I do not tire easily, nor do I need to sleep as much as you do."

The healer hesitated. "Elise and I have been taking turns. But what about you? What if it infects you?"

"Elves are resistant to almost all illnesses," Sariel reassured her. "The likelihood is almost nonexistent. Just leave me with the notes that you have for each of them."

After the other woman left, Sariel sat down in the chair beside Jarl's bed, taking a moment to gather her composure. She missed Lianderthral already and had only seen Brynna and her family for a few minutes this morning. Faced with the evidence of how severe this illness might be, she was beginning to doubt whether bringing them to Eastdale was the right decision.

There was a girl around Markham and Theran's age in the room. From what Marian had written, she had come down sick not long ago, most likely infected by Jarl's son, who had in turn almost certainly been infected by his father. The good news was that the disease was not extremely fast acting or fast spreading. The bad news was that it had already spread before the healers realized they were not seeing isolated cases of a normal sickness.

In a way, it almost reminded Sariel of the experiments that Belderon had conducted on the orcs. Belderon had bred them and designed poisons for them to use, then built up their resistance to the poisons. Sariel had never had much of a part in those experiments, although she had inherited almost all of Belderon's knowledge about the poisons.

Perhaps she could treat this illness like a slow-acting poison, since it seemed to progress like one. If Jarl had killed the orcs that had passed on the disease to him and his family, then their bodies might still be at the homestead. She would need to look into that, but at the same time, she would need to do her best to keep Jarl and the others alive for long enough that they could develop some kind of cure. The problem was that anyone other than Sariel would probably be susceptible to infection.

It would not be as easy as simply figuring out which poisons were used and what amount and mixture of antidotes needed to be administered. Could Sariel even be of any use? She had less experience than Marian and had never dealt with sick humans before, although she knew about it in theory. Still, this was the best chance that these people had, and she could hardly make things worse by trying.

One thing at a time, then. Sariel would make a list of all that she had to do and all the help she needed outside of the quarantined area. As she looked down at the young girl, seeing her papery thin skin and hearing how she struggled to draw breath through her cracked lips, Sariel realized something else.

In some ways, the rules of an assassin that she had learned under Belderon's tutelage were still applicable. She had been taught to eliminate her emotions and to control and suppress what she could not eliminate. For centuries, Sariel had picked logic over sentiment and she had become as good as she was because completing the assignment had always come first over conscience. Though she had been shaken after her first blood-oath, when she had killed Rhovansûl's lover, Sariel had abided by the rules. They had been the foundation of her existence.

To be at her best here, Sariel could not get emotionally involved, not if she wanted to keep from being overwhelmed. It was no wonder Marian had dark circles under her eyes and looked as though she had lost weight in just the past few weeks. The people of Eastdale did not want or need any more sympathy. They had a strong, capable leader in Harthain already and compassionate, skilled healers in Marian and Elise. Sariel was here because they needed her expertise, theoretical or otherwise—and because if this sickness had anything at all to do with Belderon's experiments on his orcs, then it was possible she was one of the few who had the requisite knowledge to search for a cure.

With that troubling thought in mind, she sorted through the stack of parchment that Marian had left her and began to read.

* * *

Lord Harthain had personally escorted her to Jarl's homestead, along with three other guards from Eastdale. Sariel would have protested, except she realized that compromise resolved things faster than if she went to the trouble of explaining why she was perfectly able to take care of herself. Besides, she understood Harthain's need for action. It was hard feeling helpless when the people he had led for over a decade were exposed to a potentially devastating plague—not that anyone had used the word, other than the guard at the main gate that Brynna had spoken to on the first day.

Harthain had a system of messenger birds set up with other human settlements in northwestern Rhovanion. Sariel had been impressed when she had learned of how much land area was actually covered. The town of Eastdale had contacts everywhere from the Misty Mountains in the west to the Grey Mountains in the north, and almost as far down as the Gladden Fields, nearly to Lórien in the south. Perhaps she should not have been too amazed at the extent and organization of the system that Harthain had showed her, since the inhabitants of Eastdale were, after all, the descendents of the Northmen. The name of Eastdale itself could be traced back to Dale, a city of men in northeastern Rhovanion that was not far from Thranduil's palace.

The news that came from the other villages and towns was disheartening. It was confirmed that the mysterious illness had spread first from the orcs that had been attacking isolated homesteads. The victims had fled to the larger villages and towns, bringing the sickness with them.

Five days after Sariel had first seen him, Jarl died. In the end, he had gone into a seizure and nothing Elise, Marian, or Sariel tried had helped. Worst yet, when Sariel had gone with Harthain to the remains of Jarl's homestead the next morning, Elise had interrupted them before they left with the news that three more people were showing signs that they had also been infected. Nothing that Sariel had found at the homestead had helped, either.

Now, two weeks after that, there were three more dead and twelve sick.

Sariel was with Brynna just outside of the quarantine room, the woman patiently listening to her as she outlined her frustrations. Jessamine was with Markham and Theran—Sariel had not seen them since the day Lianderthral had left. Though she was almost certainly immune to infection, she was afraid of accidentally becoming a carrier, since it seemed that the sickness was spreading from something other than pure blood to blood contact, though that was how it had passed from orc to human.

Brynna was sitting down, but Sariel paced in front of her, too worked up to stay still. "Jordis is beginning to cough up blood and she can barely breathe on her own."

"The little girl?" asked Brynna. At Sariel's short nod, she closed her eyes. It was all too easy to imagine Markham or Theran in her place. "How are the others doing?"

"We have managed to stabilize their conditions, but Agnar has slipped into unconsciousness. Agnar is Jarl's son," Sariel clarified, seeing the question on Brynna's face. "So he was the second one exposed to this, through his father. For some reason Jordis is much worse than the others, perhaps because she is so young."

"All we can do so far seems to be to just make them as comfortable as possible," Marian said as she joined them, not bothering to hide her bitter tone. "Elise and I have tried everything we know. This is like nothing that has been recorded by our predecessors."

"I still have some things that I could try," Sariel admitted. "They are poisons as well, but mixed together in the right way, I think they will counteract the infection enough to make the other consequences worth it. I can also prepare an antidote to be administered after my mixture has had time to counteract the sickness."

"That sounds risky," Brynna ventured, out of her league but still trying to help. "What if they weaken too much from the poisons you are giving them? If you give them the antidote too soon, the infection will still be there, but if you give them the antidote too late, they will be past saving, will they not?"

"Exactly." Sariel collapsed into a chair, her action graceless less from exhaustion than from anger. "I can hardly experiment with medicines on the critically ill."

"We may not have a choice soon," Marian pointed out. "Elise already wants you to administer your mixture to Jordis. She does not have much time left, Sariel, even if you do nothing."

"Be as that may, we are also no closer to developing an antiserum," Sariel pointed out in disgust. "The quarantine has kept the numbers lower than they might have been, but this is still spreading—just more slowly. Our efforts are divided between finding a cure and finding an antiserum, even one that is not fully effective."

"Sariel…" Something in Marian's tone made the Elf turn to look at her sharply. "Elise and I spoke earlier today and we agreed that we should take turns caring for the patients again."

"But if you do—" Sariel started.

"Even at the risk of infection," Marian interrupted, "we will do it. Elise's apprentice can help with everything else and keep the patients' families informed. Your time is better spent doing what we cannot. Besides, there are too many for you to care for by yourself now."

This had her out of her chair again, but any argument Sariel could make against it would be weak and they both knew it. Although it was rude, she left Brynna and Marian without another word, passing through the double set of doors to enter the infirmary. It was time to check on the patients anyway. Once the doors shut behind her, she made a beeline to Jordis.

The young girl looked like she was on the cusp of death. Her forehead gleamed with sweat and the near translucence of her bluish skin only emphasized the delicate, dark spiderwebbing of her veins. Her eyes were sunken in her face, her chest barely rose and fell, and dried blood stained the corner of her mouth from her last convulsions. Every breath Jordis took was heavy and labored. In fact, Sariel could hear every halting breath that the patients in the room took and the air in the room was thick with the smell of sickness and old blood.

She bent over the child and smoothed back a few stray wisps of blonde hair as she fought back despair. She had succeeded in bringing down the dangerously high fevers with a special infusion of willowbark, but the illness destroyed the body in a systematic fashion that could not be stopped or alleviated. These humans were so _frail_, so defenseless against sickness.

They were already calling this the Blue Death. By the end, the victims all shared the same characteristics: bleeding from the nose, ears, and mouth, skin that looked like fine parchment dyed in the palest, most otherworldly blue. Like Jordis, all those who had died showed the same dark spiderweb patterns of veins through their blue skin. It was not a pretty sight—there was no pretending that the dead had simply gone to sleep or succumbed to a more common sickness.

The Great Plague had almost been unfathomable to Sariel when she had read the texts that Runya had given to her. Even learning that half of the people living in Rhovanion had died from the Great Plague did not have the same impact on Sariel as seeing this one ill child. She tried to imagine hundreds and thousands of these corpses, some left to rot where they had died, and she understood why even the possibility of a plague had sparked such panic.

She had never feared dying while in a fight. The months she had spent in Eryn Lasgalen during the war had not changed that. What Sariel did fear was this sickness, because without any sort of cure, these people did not even have a fighting chance. This invisible, unfathomable enemy could claim more lives than even the greatest of wars, unless someone could stop it—and she was the one they were relying on to do that. What she needed was a test subject, but she could hardly use any of the patients in her care in that way—

_The patients in her care_. Sariel jerked up straight, her hand falling away from the girl's forehead. The answer to her problem had been there all along. She had wondered before if this was some mutated strain of Belderon's experiments that had been passed on accidentally to the new generations of orcs that he had bred. This disease did not only affect humans. She bared her teeth in a sudden smile, far too tired of feeling as though she could not do enough to make a difference.

What she really needed was to find and capture an orc.

* * *

The late November wind was icy against the exposed parts of her face, but she was already lucky that the skies were clear of snow. Sariel's plan was simple. From the reports that Harthain had shared with her, she knew there were still orcs raiding in the area around Eastdale. Winter had made food and supplies harder to find, so many of the small bands had become reckless. Some, certainly, had to be carriers of the plague.

Sariel had no way of knowing whether the disease was fatal in orcs or merely weakened them. Orc medicine was crude and rudimentary, so she doubted that infected orcs were much better off than those in quarantine. Not that it mattered if they were, since if her unfortunate future victim was not yet ill, she could probably infect them with the samples of blood she had taken from the patients in Eastdale.

A choked laugh burst out of her as Sariel realized that for once, this presented no moral dilemma. After all, the alternative would have been to give Jordis and the other patients the experimental medicine. Elise had been in favor of that, as had Harthain. Marian had been more hesitant, but as more people were diagnosed and as those already ill approached death, Sariel could tell that even Marian would tell her to do it.

Without the benefit of a stationary target, Sariel had ridden out for the past week. Harthain had given her a map of northwestern Rhovanion, so she methodically divided up and covered the wilderness around Eastdale. She had been out riding almost constantly for the last few days and she did so alone, although Harthain would have been happy to order some of the town's guards to help her and there might have been volunteers.

If Lianderthral or any of her old companions had been there, Sariel would not have hesitated to ask for them to accompany her, but as it was, even the trained fighters would be more of a liability and distraction than a help.

As she headed in the direction of Jarl's abandoned homestead again, she came across the first positive sign she had seen in days, thanks to last night's snowfall. Sariel dismounted and examined the crushed snow underfoot. Other riders had passed through the area only a few hours ago. From the tracks they had left, there were three riders, in fact, which was an ideal number if they were orcs.

A child could have followed the path they had left and Sariel did so until she came within sight of an abandoned single family settlement close to Jarl's. Leaving Myste behind along with her bow and quiver, Sariel set off on foot with speed and stealth. Whatever she was tracking had taken shelter within the small wooden house just as she might have hoped. The front door was broken and she wasted no time in slipping in once she checked that the room was empty.

A commotion in the next room drew her to it in time to see one orc stab another in the eye. Sariel bit back a growl of frustration—for once, she needed them _alive_. Before the two remaining orcs could kill each other off, Sariel drew two darts from the pouch at her waist and threw them in rapid succession.

Her aim was unerring. Both struck the orcs in their necks and as one, they turned to her, enraged. Sariel stayed back and watched as they took a few steps forward, their own fight forgotten, and then collapsed before they were even halfway across the room. The fight was over before it even began.

She had prepared the darts with curare, a potent poison extracted from _strychnos_, a bushy shrub with shiny, prominently veined green leaves and star-shaped white flowers. The beauty of curare was that ingesting or inhaling it did nothing. It was only poisonous if mixed with blood. The only drawback was that curare was difficult to make and _strychnos _was quite rare; Sariel had used up what she had of it on these darts.

She stepped over the motionless orcs, satisfied with how quickly they had become paralyzed. If she left them as they were, they would die of asphyxiation soon, but she had also prepared the antidote, which was effective if applied immediately after exposure. With only a few minutes to spare, Sariel disarmed both orcs and then gave each a blow to the head for good measure, carefully tempering her strength.

Outside, she ran toward where she had left Myste and whistled piercingly once she was within earshot, calling the filly to her to save time. She had brought rope with her and she restrained both orcs securely before administering the antidote. Now that she had time to examine them, she could see from their appearances that the dead orc was in poor health. Unfortunately, the two that she had paralyzed seemed uninfected.

"Not for long," Sariel said under her breath as she took vials of blood out from her supplies. Though Elise and Marian's observations of the newly diagnosed patients proved that blood contagion was not the only way that the Blue Death was spreading, those who were wounded almost invariably sickened. She left her captives in the house, trusting that predators would not attack ill prey.

By the time she returned to Eastdale, there were twenty nine sick and Jordis had taken her last breath. All Sariel could do was pray for more time.

* * *

**A****/N**: I officially now have over 70 pages of writing for this story that'll never end up actually IN the story. A lot of it was no good, but still, what a lovely waste. Anyway, I haven't been able to respond to many comments (FFN is giving me errors for everything these days!), but please know that I appreciate each and everyone one of them. The truth is, without knowing that you guys are reading this, I'm not sure I would still be writing it. Thank you all so much for your enthusiasm and encouragement.

P.S. Curare really exists and the next chapter will _only_ have Legolas. We're about to find out what's been happening in Eryn Lasgalen…

**Please ****keep the feedback coming! :]**


	32. All Else Fleets By

**Blood-Red Rose for Legolas**

ElveNDestiNy

**Notes**: My profound apologies for making everyone wait for so incredibly long, especially since I'd promised I would finish this story soon. You can thank the Skyrim OST for my renewed determination to write this chapter, so if you find some accidental FUS RO DAHs in the story, be sure to let me know =P

The chapter title is from one of my favorite quotes, where Legolas reflects on the Elves' perception of time and change. As you can see, it refers back to the ideas in the letter I quoted in the last chapter.

'_Nay, time does not tarry ever,' he said; 'but change and growth is not in all things and places alike. For the Elves the world moves, and it moves both very swift and very slow. Swift, because they themselves change little, and all else fleets by: it is a grief to them. Slow, because they do not count the running years, not for themselves. The passing seasons are but ripples ever repeated in the long long stream. Yet beneath the Sun all things must wear to an end at last.  
_

* * *

**Chapter 32: All Else Fleets By**

* * *

In those first few waking moments of the morning, for just the time of a heartbeat or two, sometimes he could forget that Sariel had left. It was the only time that the knot that had taken up permanent residence in his stomach ever loosened and the only time he could breathe without feeling hollow within. Yet soon enough the memories would arise, sharper than knives in all their perfect clarity. Every day became just another day that he had to face alone, all the while not knowing where she was or if she was all right—and not knowing if she would ever return.

Sometimes he thought his promise that he would not follow was punishment for not being strong enough or capable enough to find a way to let her stay. He had failed them both. The bitterest acknowledgement was that all their effort, all the things they had faced together, had not mattered in the end. It was as though he was waking from a grand delusion, and yet, no matter how hopeless he knew it now was, nothing changed for him. Time eases all things, the philosophers of Men had said. But for Legolas, it would not be so, any more than Elvish memories dulled with time.

No, what _was_ left for him was time—endless quantities of it, the prospect of infinite pain. The race of Men was similar to the race of Elves more often than not, but in this fundamental difference, it was no wonder that where Men persevered, his race often chose death instead.

Yet it was also remarkable, in a strange way, how easily his time had become occupied by mundane responsibilities. Legolas did everything required of him and did it well, but it was impossible not to feel somehow disconnected from it, as if it were someone else playing his role with consummate skill. The king accordingly delegated more and more responsibilities to him, perhaps in attempt to convey his approval of his son's sudden devotion to leadership. It seemed that Legolas was finally the son that Thranduil had hoped for, although the irony of it had not escaped either of them. Nothing his father had done had changed him. It had all been her.

If he paid special attention now to those around him, it was because it was hard not to feel betrayed by the very people whom he was duty-bound to lead. While the forest of his home still comforted him—he had been raised as a Wood-Elf and would always find peace in the Wood of Greenleaves—the people he had always considered his own seemed almost unfamiliar to him.

After all, Sariel had tried so hard to win their acceptance. She had fought for Eryn Lasgalen even when it was one of Thranduil's own advisors who had turned her entire life into such ruin. She had been strong enough to survive what none of their race could, but rather than seeing it as a sign of her courage, the Elves would rather think of it as her crime. His own people, who prided themselves on being wise and just, had refused to see how she was as much victim as perpetrator.

So how could he have faith in these people now, when he had seen exactly how wrongthey could be? They clung to the past, blinded by their arrogance, and did so in the name of honor and glory. Coming back to his home after years spent wandering through the various kingdoms of Middle-Earth, it was suddenly all too easy for Legolas to understand why even those like Belderon and Caranfer had their own share of supporters. After all, as much as the race of Elves considered themselves to be superior to others, they could not resist the temptation of the One Ring any more than the Men could, in the end. The Lady Galadriel herself had yielded to the humility of a simple Hobbit.

He could not forgive, just as he could not forget. Even now, as Legolas listened to the far scout's weekly account of the patrols, one part of his mind paid attention to Sirdún's words while the other part wondered what he would do if word came of her. So many things had become clear to him in hindsight. She could never have stayed and he could not truly leave. So how could he reconcile the two?

"The number of overall encounters with orcs continues to decrease," the Elf before him said, choosing to finish his report on a positive note. "Although, there has also been something amiss…"

Sirdún's hesitation and look of unease caught Legolas' notice. "What is it?" he asked, control keeping his voice even and smooth, though a treacherous hope immediately flared inside him.

The Elf lowered his eyes to the floor, unusual behavior during a report to say the least. "Finhiril and another one of our scouts have found some dead orcs in southern Eryn Lasgalen, my prince."

Legolas raised an eyebrow. "Something killed them before the scouts could, I assume."

Something, or…_someone_? Each moment that the scout hesitated before answering seemed to drag on impossibly long.

"The corpses showed signs that indicate the orcs probably died of a slowly progressing toxin," Sirdún said with discomfort. Though Elves rarely displayed signs of anxiety, he shifted on his feet, looking as if he, rather than Finhiril, was making this report only because he had drawn the short straw. "There were no obvious wounds on inspection, so whomever had made the kills must be highly skilled. Three orcs were found together at the southern edge of the forest and two more about half a day's ride beyond that, the furthest we have sent scouts."

Silence descended. After a few moments, Legolas realized that Sirdún's eyes were fixed in embarrassed fascination on some point on the table between them. He looked down and realized that he was clenching his hand so hard that his knuckles were visibly white with strain.

"Send out two—no, three—more far scouts to the area," he instructed Sirdún as calmly as he could. "Did Finhiril or the other scout take a sample of the orcs' blood?"

"Unfortunately no, my lord. The first time the corpses were discovered, it did not seem unusual enough to warrant such action. When more bodies beyond the southern edge of the forest were found, the blood in the corpses had degraded too much already."

_But why would she use poison?_ Legolas wondered. This might not be her work at all. He knew Sariel's style; she fought efficiently and killed cleanly. Besides, as loath as Legolas was to remember it, Lianderthral was with her, and he would not approve of using poison either. Nor was there any reason for her to use a slow-acting poison, not when she could have taken care of the problem in a myriad of other, quicker ways. But if not Sariel, then who had killed the orcs?

"Instruct all the scouts to do so if they come across more bodies. I want to find out exactly why dead orcs are being left in the southern forest. Bring any new findings to me directly."

"We will investigate this further," Sirdún promised.

"Good. Thank you for your report," Legolas said, resisting the urge to demand a multitude of unreasonable things. The scout took it as the dismissal that it was and left the room silently, likely breathing a sigh of relief. It had not been a comfortable meeting for either of them, with too much left unspoken in the report, but known to all. Legolas spent a moment to commit Sirdún's name to memory—the Elf was relatively young and had only recently been made into a scout—and then closed his eyes for a moment.

He could not hold back a short, but unamused, laugh. What kind of rumors would spread throughout the stone halls of the Elvenking tonight? He knew the truth, though. It was not Sariel's work, even if Sirdún and the other scouts strongly suspected that it was. The more he thought about it, the surer he was of that, but it did not stop him from wishing that those orcs _had_ died at her hands, if only because it might mean she had not gone too far beyond the far reaches of this woodland realm.

It was getting late, but there was still one last report. Legolas sighed and checked his schedule—that he needed one at all was something he tried hard not to think about—and saw to his relief that the meeting had been canceled. Still, before he had even started to stretch or relax, a soft knock sounded at the door.

"Come in," he called automatically, sitting up a little straighter. The strain in his shoulders only faded when he saw that it was Runya.

Legolas had never been close to the healer before Sariel, although he knew that Runya was in his mother's company often and was friendly with Eros. Still, in the past, he had probably never exchanged more than a few direct words with the healer. His reputation for reserve and distance among others had been well earned in the days before he had left Mirkwood.

Things had changed since then, though. Maybe it was just another desperate attempt to surround himself with reminders of her, including the few people who had given her support. He appreciated what Runya had tried to do for Sariel and now that he had given the other Elf a chance, he found that he was more at ease with her than with almost all of the other lords and ladies.

"What brings you here so late?" he asked, not bothering with meaningless and polite greetings. He rose and pulled out the other chair for her, trying to pretend that he did not see how she assessed him with the sweeping glance of a healer.

"You should make sure you get some rest," Runya chided him even as she took a seat. Despite her impeccable background and looks, she was the most unpretentious of them all. "Working yourself into exhaustion is not going to help, Legolas."

He gave a casual shrug, neither denying nor confirming her implied accusation. Quietly, Legolas told her of the far scout's report and listened as Runya pointed out once again that Sariel would never resort to using poison.

"Sariel left all her deadly poisons here with me anyway," the healer added, much to his surprise. "Remember how she helped me with the Gondorian messenger?"

"Yes, and then you gave her a couple of those massive tomes on healing," Legolas remembered, although he could not hide the last stab of disappointment at this confirmation. He should have been glad that she was not leaving a trail of corpses in her wake, of orcs or otherwise, but it was hard for him to feel anything at all.

"I came to talk to you about that, as a matter of fact." Runya's blue eyes were worried and she did not bother hiding it from him. "I am in contact with other healers throughout the land, though we usually have little to fear in comparison to humans. Still, the recent news I have heard has me concerned and I thought you would want to know. I have already told the queen this morning."

"Runya, do you know—did she—" The words caught in his throat, making it feel as though he were choking on the question he could not ask. His eyes found the healer's, the plea in them too much for her to ignore.

"No, she said nothing to me," Runya said gently, wishing she did not have to see the heavy shadow of loss that darkened his gaze. She knew about loss, but when her husband had died in battle against Belderon's orcs, at least she had not teetered on the edge of hope for months. She could not imagine how Legolas felt, having lost something he could not be sure he could ever find again.

"Then what is it?" His voice was hoarse and the words heavy. She could see him swallow down bitter regret once again. Elves did not tire easily and even more rarely showed actual signs of fatigue, but looking at Legolas, Runya understood why the queen was concerned. Still, it was not why she had come, although Miluirin _had _asked her to try to persuade Legolas to stop pushing—or punishing—himself.

"Sickness is spreading throughout the lands," she told him. "It is too early to tell how bad it will be, but it is deadly, and humans are much more susceptible to illness than we are. The healers believe it may become a plague."

"It must be already widespread, then. Have there been many deaths already?" Legolas asked, recalling what little he knew about the progression of infectious diseases.

Runya met his gaze solemnly. "I have heard about a sickness causing all the same symptoms from at least four places, with fatalities everywhere. You should send messages to Lord Elrond at Imladris and also to the king and queen in Gondor, at the very least. If you or the king have other human contacts, it is time to reach out to them."

"I will, as soon as I can," he agreed. "Thank you for bringing this to me, Runya. Can you continue to keep me informed about any news you receive?"

Runya nodded and rose from her chair. She would have left then, but something, perhaps a sense of guilt, made her stay standing uncertainly before him. "Legolas… There is something else I think I should tell you."

He looked up at her, reading the indecisiveness in her face easily. She hastened to say it before she lost her nerve. He deserved to know.

"I think Sariel may have turned her efforts to healing." Seeing the incomprehension in his face, Runya tried her best to explain. "She said some things to me that made me believe… Well, I do not know any of this for certain, but I gave her the books because she said she wanted to learn how to save lives, rather than take them. And she already knows so much about different medicines, even ones that I have never heard of before. She would be well suited to healing, I think."

She watched as he absorbed the information and realized that it made a lot of sense, given everything he knew about Sariel. "I should have known," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

Runya wished she could find a way to offer her sympathy, but though he sat right before her, he could not have been more distant. "Legolas, I may be wrong, and perhaps I should not have said anything at all to you, but I thought you would want to know."

Legolas blindly turned to her again and the look on his face was so raw that she looked away, feeling as if she were intruding on his privacy. "If what you have guessed is true…if that is what she is doing, then she is not safe."

"Elves are not able to fall ill to sickness," Runya reminded him softly, if only because he should hear it out loud. It was very little comfort, but all that she could give. "She needed to do something. Not just for you, not even to prove herself to all of those here who had shunned her, but for herself. Legolas, if she is out there helping these sick humans heal, perhaps it is a way for her to heal as well."

* * *

"Relax your hands and shoulders," Legolas told her softly in his least distracting voice. "Remember, you already have great form, little bird. Take a deep breath while you nock the arrow and then another before you draw."

Emelin self-consciously relaxed her shoulders and her white-knuckled grip as Legolas tried his hardest not to appear as if he were critically examining the preadolescent. "Trust in your skills, in the equipment. When you are ready, let yourself draw back and anchor. Do not concentrate so much on aiming or the flight of the arrow—instead, visualize the target in your mind. Relax your hands again and your body, and then let the release come."

The young Elf-girl followed his advice point by point, but as Legolas watched, her blue eyes widened with sudden anxiety and her hand reflexively clenched around the bow grip again as she struggled to hold the sight on the target. Long moments passed, a few seconds too many as Emelin tried to force control on her aim and keep the sight still. While her release was still clean, the arrow missed the target completely, embedding itself into the ground some two feet to the right.

Emelin's shoulders slumped again in disappointment as she took in her results, which had not improved in the slightest over her last five draws in this practice session. In fact, nor had it improved at all during the last five practices…which had been spread over the last seven weeks. At this point, Emelin did not even bother looking in Legolas' direction to see the encouraging smile he sent her way.

The only thing that hadchanged was that she was no longer releasing too early, before she could even anchor, or having difficulty releasing at all. Before, she had frozen up completely a few times, her hands shaking so much from the sustained tension that he had been afraid she would hurt herself.

Not for the first time, Legolas wondered if it had really been such a sensible idea for him to mentor Emelin through her recent struggles with archery. It did not help the child to be reminded that she was using up a prince's valuable time with her every mistake, though she had grown close enough to him that endearments such as "little bird" slipped readily off his tongue, without his conscious thought. Still, he had agreed to Runya's request and he had never expected it to be easy to help her daughter. He was prepared to take as much time as she needed to work her way through her issue.

"What am I doing wrong?" Emelin scowled at the target, a bit of red cloth pinned to a bush, and her frustration burst from her. "I know you have never seen it, but I am usually much better than this!"

"This is a normal problem," he reassured her, "and it willgo away eventually. Relax and let your instincts and training guide you, instead of your mind. I did not tell you before since the term itself is unnecessarily awful, but they call this 'target panic.' What it really means is that you are just trying too hard to aim. Almost every archer goes through it at some point."

Normally so mature for her age, Emelin aimed a look at him that was brimming with a universal childish scorn for the useless advice of elders. "Did _you_?"

Taken aback, Legolas stalled. "Well…no. Not that I recall."

"And did she?"

Now genuinely confused, he just looked at Emelin.

"Lady Sariel," she clarified. "My mother said she is as skilled as you are in archery. Did she ever forget how to aim an arrow?"

There was a long pause and Emelin started to look as though she regretted bringing up Sariel's name, although Legolas would have told her that she had no reason to be. "Not that I know of, but we never discussed the subject," he said at last.

"I will ask her when she comes back," the young Elf decided a moment after that, trying to smooth over the trouble she had caused. "Maybe she will be willing to help me."

At those innocent words, Legolas felt his heart skip a beat before it started pounding in his chest. Not wanting to scare Emelin into refusing to divulge any secrets, he counted to ten before he spoke again. Unfortunately, she had taken his silence as a prompt to resume practice, so he tamped down on his questions as she moved away and drew.

"The key is to letting the bow shoot itself," he called out to her. "Your only function is to point the bow and allow it to release all its potential. Do not be afraid to let the bow 'float.' What I mean is, do not try to hold it still on the exact spot you are trying to hit. As soon as you do that, you are thinking too much."

The arrow flew past the target and Emelin gritted her teeth, her gaze both disbelieving and resigned.

Legolas could see that she was still letting logic and effort control her, so he changed tactics. He had been going about this the wrong way, he thought, giving her a checklist of things to do as she went through the process. That had helped up to a certain point, but no more. Going through checklists was what one did when first learning, not when one had fallen off the horse and had to get back on again. She already knew perfectly well how to do this; what she needed was belief.

He walked up beside her, glad that she was past focusing much of her attention on his presence. "Close your eyes." Legolas waited until her eyes fluttered shut before continuing, keeping his tone light and confident. "Think about the last time you hit it perfectly, the way it came almost as naturally as wanting to touch something and finding your hand already there. Do you remember that?"

When she nodded hesitantly, he continued. "All you need to do is trust yourself, Emelin. When you throw a ball, you do not actually aim it, do you? No, you look at where you want it to land and you throw it. You do not try to think of where your hand is on the ball or when you will release it from your grip. This is the same thing."

The child took a deep breath, not forgetting all the other advice he had given her before, and he admired her determination despite the frustration they had both felt.

"Good," Legolas breathed, trying not to break the moment. He scrambled for the right words, hardly knowing what he was saying. "Now let your hands relax and let your mind guide the arrow, rather than your eyes. You already know what will happen. Believe in it."

He could feel the change come over her, almost magical when it happened. Her hands steadied, the rigid tension in between her shoulders relaxed as she breathed out.

A moment later, it was done. Emelin took one look at the arrow protruding dead center from the target and let out a small shriek of elation. Legolas had shared her troubles so much that he almost cheered himself, proud that she had found a way past her mental block—and by herself, since he doubted whether all his talk had helped much at all.

Emelin repeated the feat five more times in quick succession before turning to him. Her grin was so wide that he felt privileged to be sharing her moment of triumph. "You were right! It was natural once I just stopped thinking so much about what I was doing."

To his surprise, she gave him a clumsy hug, bow still in hand. "Thank you, thank you so much. I am sorry I was being difficult earlier and not listening to what you said."

It was the perfect opening and Legolas seized it with the desperation of a drowning man. "Emelin, you have been far more patient than I could have wished. I was only taken by surprise because it sounded like Sariel—that is, Lady Sariel—had told you something before she left." He was completely guessing, but he suspected this precocious child had a connection to Sariel that he craved and, he was ashamed to admit, that he might even envy.

"She never came to say goodbye," Emelin told him, her mood dimming a little.

It was nothing compared to the disappointment that he felt. There had been no secret promise to the child then, of Sariel's return. In fact, Emelin looked uncertain now, no doubt aware that Sariel's departure was a sensitive matter in court.

"Then how do you know that she will come back?" asked Legolas, the question slipping out before he could think of a less demanding way to ask. His mouth dry, he watched as Emelin looked at him with surprise.

"Do you think she will not?"

Since Legolas was too stunned to immediately reply for the second time that day, Emelin pondered her own assumption. "My mother said Lady Sariel left because of the trouble at court. I heard what the others said after Lord Caranfer attacked the king, too. But everybody knows that she loves you, so…"

Doubt entered her voice and she turned betrayed eyes to him as another possibility occurred to her. "Do you not love her?"

"I _do _love her!" Legolas found his voice at that very moment and the words came out fiercely enough that Emelin flinched back. Immediately he gentled his tone, having shocked himself too by admitting it out loud, even if it was only to her. "I apologize, I did not mean to sound angry at you. You know that the…circumstances surrounding Sariel's life are very complicated."

Likely just now realizing the naivety of her belief in Sariel's certain return, the young Elf-maid knit her brows together, her earlier happiness having disappeared. "Lady Sariel will come back," Emelin insisted nevertheless. "If you love her, we just have to wait until everybody is able to see past the problems. The complications."

Listening to her, Legolas realized she fully believed that Sariel would return to Eryn Lasgalen, although she had herself witnessed most of the ways Sariel had been humiliated and judged by their society. It was not a hope, but an actual belief. But why, why did Emelin have such certitude? Because Sariel loved him, their prince. It was that simple to her, even though she was intelligent enough to understand that it was also not. After all, having lost her father in the war, Emelin was no stranger to harsh realities. It was just that she had not yet let her experiences wear down her spirit.

Her logic, simultaneously childlike and adult, pierced through the defenses Legolas had carefully built up around him ever since Sariel had ridden off and taken a piece of him with her. It was all he could do to maintain his composure before this child's conviction.

"You taught me this," Emelin said patiently, clearly sensing just how much turmoil she had caused him to feel. "You taught me how to push past the doubts and the fears."

He could not follow her train of thought. When his expression failed to show any sign of comprehension, she sighed. "You told me just now, did you not? 'You already know what will happen. Believe in it.'"

Legolas was still absorbing that little bit of wisdom—which he had actually made up on the spot—when Runya found them and ushered her too-insightful daughter back home.

* * *

Even as the autumn equinox had come and passed and even as the days became cold and white in the dead of winter, Legolas took little heed of the changing world around him. And yet, the days also seemed even longer and time moved even slower. Perhaps he could not keep track of the individual days that passed even when he tried, but he knew exactly how much time had passed since she had left that morning. No matter how well he suppressed it from thoughts, it never lasted for long. He did not really want to forget, not when memories were all he had left of her.

Every morning, as Legolas was listening to reports, he continued to hope there would be some indirect word of her—something that would not break his promise to her, but would let him know that she was still alive, still well. Her absence should have dulled with time, and certainly with all the duties Thranduil piled on him. Instead, it only sharpened like a gnawing hunger, until he felt that despite his pretense of calm, he was slowly going insane.

The memories haunted him. It was there all the time: the feel of her in his arms, the tangle of their limbs together as their bodies moved together, the completeness he had felt. Sometimes he hated her for showing him that one glimpse of perfection and then taking it away. For making him complete, only to leave him broken. Sometimes he hated himself, for letting it all happen and for breaking her, too. At night, he could not sleep, no matter how exhausted he made himself. His feet always led him to her room, but it had been stripped bare of anything that might have suggested someone had once occupied them. It was like she had never even been there, except in his imagination.

Legolas knew he was causing a great deal of worry to Miluirin and even his father. Cracks were beginning to show in his façade and the mirror showed him the deep weariness in his eyes that he could not disguise. The bright vitality with which he had always viewed the world had faded, making it harder and harder for him to really care about the people around him.

There was more worrisome news of sickness, but the Elves were a world away from the humans' fear of the plague. Nothing had ever so affected the Elven race, no Great Plague to leave half the people of the Kingdom of Rhovanion dead. Though there were many, many Elves who remembered those dark times in the history of Men, here in the heart of Thranduil's woodland realm, those stories inspired no more fear than did the shadows from the trees. The Elves were protected from such mundane concerns as physical disease by their very nature.

At least the mystery of the dead, "poisoned" orcs that the scouts had found in the southern forest had been solved. As more detailed descriptions of the symptoms and etiology of the spreading disease came in from messengers, it became clear that no one was killing the orcs after all. They were dying of the very same disease they were passing onto the human populations they raided and killed. Though it was a piece of ill news for the humans, it made things simpler for the Elven kingdom. At war's end, there had been numerous residual loosely-banded orcs, but more and more often the scouting parties that Legolas still regularly sent out to clear Eryn Lasgalen of such threats were engaged in tallying the number of corpses they found, rather than making them.

Life in the splendor of the Forest of Greenleaves had settled into familiar, peaceful patterns, and Legolas could not stop himself from hating them all for it. The animosity that Sariel and Caranfer had aroused faded slowly, but once it was gone, the Elves moved on. Much as they had done before Sariel had left, Miluirin's unofficial council wielded their influence in trying to make the idea of Sariel, or rather, the very reality of Sariel's existence and identity, acceptable. Perhaps theirs was a noble cause in trying to change the minds and hearts of their society, but Legolas resented the efforts, however good the intentions behind them. He understood that it was not that the Elves could not change. The truth was that they did not want to, preferring to cling to their old ways of understanding the world. And in the end, with Sariel gone, what did it matter if empathy for her eventually outweighed judgment and antipathy?

Hearing her name spoken everywhere in the halls that seemed so empty without her was like to hearing the praises of the dead being sung. What good did such songs do for the dead themselves? The oftentimes genuine sympathy he received from those who had undergone a change of heart acted as an irritant, rather than a balm, to his pain. Hurt turned to anger and then into bitterness. Those who had considered Legolas aloof before now found him hard, but he cared not what others thought of him.

He had never before realized how empty time could be, too, how even the most important tasks felt meaningless once completed, so that he needed search for something else, anything else, to occupy the hours. There could not have been a more effective slow-acting poison on him than time itself.

Legolas had sent her the ring in hopes that she would recognize his intent behind it, if not the true meaning: that to him, they were bound to one another by the strongest vows of their kind, even if she had not meant the same. He would never choose another. He would never even want to. But Sariel was free to choose what she liked, free even to love another, if that was her ultimate wish. He had been drawn to her unlike any other, but he was keenly aware that for her, it had been different. He had been the first of her kind to even speak to her seriously, outside her family and Belderon. It was not beyond the realm of possibility for her to now discover all the things previously denied to her in life, including things she had never known she had wanted. She could find someone with whom she could truly make a new life.

He tormented himself with the thought that she might find another, and why not? Sariel was not bound by the traditions or culture of their race. It was this very thing that saved her from death after the violation she suffered at the hands of her former master. He did not doubt that she had felt deeply for him, had truly loved him. What he doubted, as days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months, was whether that would be enough to bring her back.

Legolas could not know, in the way that Emelin knew. He was not a child who could simply trust and wait. Love could not make her safe. It could not bridge the utter silence of not knowing where she was or if harm had befallen her. All he had were his thoughts and his doubts. It was impossible not to despise himself for his self-pity and for not having more faith, but it was equally impossible for him to stop.

A part of him knew that he was in a self-destructive downward spiral, but he could find neither reason nor motivation to stop it.

When that reason came, it was one that took them all by surprise.

* * *

They gathered in a council room, although it was empty save for a handful of people. Other than Runya and the messenger himself, only the royal family was in attendance, not even a single advisor or trusted servant at hand. The messenger was Sirdún, whom Legolas had sent halfway to Imladris not long after hearing Runya's alarming news about the human plague. The others were sitting, with Sirdún standing before them.

The former far scout looked drained and stretched to his limits. He had arrived almost in the middle of the night and he had clearly pushed himself for several days; it did not take a leap of the imagination for them to know that the news would be as grim and unwelcome as it was important.

Sirdún looked first at Thranduil and then at the queen, but when neither of them prompted him, he turned to Legolas. "The news from Rivendell is grim, my lord. I traveled as far as the nearest human habitation, but most of the settlements are turning away outsiders for fear of disease. No one dares name it the plague yet, but the sickness has spread nearly across all the land in just two month's time."

"What news have you brought?" said Thranduil with a touch of condescension. "It is hardly of importance to us that the humans are still too fearful to make the plague as such."

"The news…" Sirdún faltered. It seemed he shivered slightly, though it could not possibly be from cold.

Watching his former far scout, Legolas realized it was likely the first time the messenger had ever stood before both king and queen alone. The messenger had braved a long and dangerous trek alone, but Thranduil had thoroughly, though unintentionally, intimidated him.

"We have heard this all before," Miluirin said, but without irritation. "As unfortunate as it is, we cannot help the humans. Has something changed?"

Sirdún swallowed reflexively as he looked into the queen's blue-grey eyes, finding confidence in her encouragement. "The news from Imladris is…the news is that the half-Elven have taken sick from the plague."

"Lords Elladan and Elrohir?" Thranduil questioned, knowing well that Lord Elrond had lately departed over the Sea, after having seen Arwen marry Aragorn in Minas Tirith.

The king's voice drowned out by Runya's horrified exclamation. "But that is impossible! If this sickness can affect the half-Elven, then it must also affect the Elves, for there is no true difference between half-Elven and Elven, save the gift to choose their fate."

"There must be some mistake," Milurin said into the ominous silence.

"Nay, that is not so, my lady." The tables had turned and now Sirdún was the calmest of them all, having had considerable time to ponder all the implications on the journey back to Eryn Lasgalen. "The report was confirmed at three different locations. As soon as those at Imladris realized their lords had taken ill after being wounded in a battle with the orcs, they sent out healers to all the nearby human settlements to see if there was ought that could be learned on how to treat the disease."

"And was there?" All impatience was gone from Thranduil. Fine lines etched the king's forehead and deepened the corners of his mouth. Never had Legolas seen his father look so weary, as a new threat once again threatened his people in the footsteps of Belderon's war, which itself followed centuries of vigilance against the Shadow from Mordor.

"Not yet, when I departed," Sirdún told them. "Our healers are as much at a loss as the human healers."

The words brought on a sudden, painful clarity that broken through Legolas' disbelief over the news. He rose to his feet as if his chair had turned to fire beneath him, only to be stopped by Miluirin's hand on his arm.

"Legolas!" Her voice rarely held such sharp rebuke and it was enough to keep him in place, temporarily.

"You do not understand, I must go," he told her, the thoughts tumbling over and over in his mind. The disease was spreading. None of the healers knew how to treat it. The plague was fatal. It could somehow infect Elves as well as humans.

Sariel was out there somewhere, likely having decided to devote herself to healing.

He closed his eyes, finding it impossible to summon the words to explain this all to Miluirin, until she derailed his every thought.

"I know, my son." When his eyes snapped open to meet hers, Miluirin looked as heartsick as he felt. "Runya told me her theory."

"I have to find her." Heedless of Miluirin's grip, Legolas rose again, nearly stumbling over his own chair in his haste. Thranduil stood as well, his gaze steely.

"Thank you, Sirdún," he said to the messenger, though his eyes were on his son. "Leave us now. We must discuss what preparations will be made to safeguard Eryn Lasgalen from his disease."

Sirdún needed no second urging and Runya trailed him out, though she looked back anxiously at the tableau of father, mother, and son.

Legolas made to follow, but a voice stopped him before he crossed the doorway.

"You cannot, Legolas."

He had expected Thranduil to stop him, had already felt the rage rise within him at the thought of his father's attempt to understand him. But Thranduil did not utter the gentle, almost sad words that he heard. Instead, his father sat at the table silently, his expression as sympathetic as Legolas had ever seen it.

Legolas looked to his father's right to meet blue-grey eyes glistening with tears, but their expression no softer for it. "You do not know where she is, or even if she is doing what you suspect. Searching for her would be impossible and dangerous—even if you were not needed here, and now more than ever."

It felt like betrayal. The tears sliding down Miluirin's face made him aware that she knew he viewed it as such. He could not remember the last time he had seen his mother cry, not since the day his sister's body had been found, but she was nearly weeping now, her voice choked. "Nothing that kept you here these past weeks and months has changed, except that the threat to your people's lives is greater than anything we could have dreamed. Legolas, if you knew where she was, I would send you to her tonight myself. But you do not."

"I can find her," he told them as much as he told himself. "I _must_. You know I must. I have to try!"

Miluirin shook her head in denial. "Do not be blinded by your fear for Sariel. Legolas, do you know what separates those who lead from those who follow?"

"I would give up our people for her," he said savagely, his heart pounding in his ears, the need to hurt them back boiling in his blood. In this moment, he was not even sure himself whether he truly did not mean it or whether he believed it with all his heart. "I would give up Eryn Lasgalen!"

"But Eryn Lasgalen cannot afford to give _you _up." Thranduil rubbed at his temples and then carefully removed his crown, setting it on the table between himself and Legolas. It was not a heavy or elaborate thing. Three bands of gold were braided together like twining vines, and golden leaves decorated the vines.

"Here is your chance," his father said, but the words were weary rather than taunting. Something in the gravity of the situation held Legolas in place, listening, even through the fear he felt for Sariel, somewhere unknown and far away.

"You have never believed me when I told you that our people needed you, Legolas," Thranduil continued. "I have led the Silvan Elves of this forest through the Third Age, through the shadow and fear of Sauron. I have led for so long that it is difficult for our people, or even you, Legolas, to imagine otherwise.

"But the time of the Elves is passing and our Noldorin kin are departing. I may have led our people well, but we are in a new Age now, a time of new beginnings. We are a race that clings to past beauty, so focused on the fading caused by the changes of time that we resist change. For nearly three thousand years, I have been the Elvenking of Mirkwood and though threats have come and gone, we have remained the same."

Anger rose again in Legolas, bitter and old, as he listened to his father. Thranduil was telling him only what he had learned already, in the cold aftermath of Sariel's departure. The Elves' concerns lay as always with the past, not the future. For someone with darkness in their past, there could be no possibility of a brighter future. It had driven what was most precious to him away, to a place he could not find.

Thranduil seemed to read his thoughts and it was only his conviction in the truth of what he was saying that overpowered his own frustration at their inability to communicate. "You are not like me and our differences have kept us apart more often than not," he admitted. "Yet it is for that very reason that our people need you. The Silvan Elves will need a new leader, Legolas, because they need change. They need to live, rather than linger. Our arts must create, rather than capture what fades. You will be a different prince and king than I, as I was different from Oropher, my father. You will find your own path, and in doing so, you will find a new way, perhaps even a new place, for the Elves who wish to stay in Middle-Earth."

The King of Eryn Lasgalen bowed his head as though he still felt the weight of the crown before him. "Forgive me, my son, for causing you such heartache. I have been too blinded by the past to see the error of my ways, so much so that I could not understand what you, and your mother, were telling me."

Milurin cradled her husband's hands in hers, smoothing her thumbs over the calluses made by bow and sword. There was an absolution in her touch that both her son and husband knew very well. She had been the only link keeping them together for far too long.

"Under our rule, the Silvan Elves have resisted the shadow of Mordor for so long that they have forgotten what it is to live in light. Legolas, change that cannot be ignored will always be feared, even by the wisest among us." Her sorrow seemed all the greater for that she understood it so well, and yet could not find a way to overcome it. "Perhaps this plague, this sickness that takes even our kind, will be the change that will test our existence."

He heard their words through a haze of fear and pain, and then pure anguish. He had felt betrayed by his own people, his faith in them shaken to the core. Yet how could he truly hate them, his childhood friends and those who had stood shoulder to shoulder with him in the war? How could he hate Emelin's belief in love, or resent Eros for being acceptable in all the ways that Sariel was not?

Legolas sat down at the table, his father's crown before him, his heart as heavy and numb as his feet. He understood. He had always thought that his father's insistence that he was somehow needed was only an attempt at manipulation, considering how much he had failed to follow in Thranduil's footsteps. Yet perhaps he had let his anger toward Thranduil cloud his judgment. He _was_ needed exactly as he was—a prince who had fallen in love with the assassin who had tried to kill him. Because only he could understand how compassion had to be stronger than vengeance, how understanding should come before judgment.

He could not demand the Silvan Elves to change, to accept Sariel with all the risks and dangers she represented, without also changing himself. He had borne the burden of duty in theory for all his life, but Thranduil and Miluirin—king and queen, not father and mother—would have him bear it in reality.

Thranduil rubbed the golden leaves on his crown with his thumb, tracing over the familiar contours. "So what separates those who lead from those who follow? Legolas, I would set you free as you so desire, but ask you to stay. Not because you need them. You have never needed them to follow. But they need you to lead."

* * *

A/N: "Target panic" is a real phenomenon among archers that you can read about in the New York Times' article "The Secret Curse of Expert Archers." I'm sure you guys have noticed that I have struggled…*ahem* a bit with writer's block at various points in this story, mostly due to loss of confidence in what the heck I was doing. There are many experiences in life that I think we ultimately have to experience on faith, and I think love is one of the biggest leaps (or falls?) of faith that we take in life. Anyway, a) I hope this chapter didn't bore you to death and b) I wish you all well during all the times you need to get past that certain block in your life too, whatever form it comes in. Without feeling that _someone _would still be around to read this note at the end of this chapter, no matter how much time it takes me to finally write this, I'm sure I would have given up.

**Please review**! I'm still editing/revising this chapter, so constructive criticism, please. Thank you all so much for reading.


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